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ART  AND   I 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


The  Enchanted  Stone 
Life's  Little  Things 
Life's  Lesser  Moods 
Adventures  Among  Pictures 
Days  with  Velasquez 
Days  in  Cornwall 
Augustus  Saint  Gaudens 
The  Education  of  an  Artist 
The  Diary  of  a  Looker-on 
Turner's  Golden  Visions 
Rembrandt 

The  Post  Impressionists 
Brabason:     His  Art   and  Life 
The  Consolations  of  a  Critic 
The  Soldier  Boy 
The  Invisible  Guide 
"What's  Freedom?" 
Things  Seen  in  America 
Authors  and  I 


ART  AND  I 


By  C.  lewis  hind 

Author  of 

"Authors  and  I." 

The  Post  Impressionists,"  Etc» 


NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON ;  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
MCMXXI 


Copyright,  192T, 
By  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATION 

TO 

FREDERICK  DIXON 

EDITOR  OF  TEE  CHRISTIAN  SCIENCE  MONITOR 

When  I  arrived  in  America  in  1917,  it  was  the 
height  of  summer,  and  the  height  of  the  War.  I 
went  to  Boston.  There  I  called  upon  you,  and  in 
your  orderly  office,  after  we  had  spoken  of  friends 
in  England  and  the  unfriendly  condition  of  Europe, 
suddenly  you  said — "What  about  writing  on  Art 
for  The  Monitor^ 

I  dissembled.  At  least  that  is  what  I  meant  to  do, 
if  I  quite  understand  the  meaning  of  that  misused 
word.  For  I  had  come  to  America  on  War  work. 
Art,  oh,  believe  me,  I  had  left  all  thought  of  Art 
behind  in  the  languid,  lovely  days  of  Peace.  You 
reasoned  with  me  (perhaps  you  have  forgotten  all 
about  it)  that  Art  endures,  that  the  roar  of  the 
guns  is  but  a  temporary  disharmony.  I  saw  the 
wisdom  of  your  contention,  for  Art  is  one  of  the 
blessed  escapes  from  turmoil,  and  then  and  there 
arranged  to  send,  punctually  and  perfervidly  (my 
word),  each  week  an  Art  essay  dealing  with  some 
Art  idea,  or  influence,  of  the  day,  that  had  cap- 
tivated me.  We  wanted  to  go  on  building  up 
happiness. 

I  have  been  an  Editor.  Some  editors  are  wicked. 
You  are  a  good  one.    You  gave  me  my  head;  you 

V 


vi  Dedication 

let  me  write  on  anything  I  chose;  you  never  asked 
me  to  eulogise  an  artistic  aunt  or  a  craftsman 
cousin;  you  let  me  be  as  long-winded  as  I  liked, 
and  you  gave  me  a  position  on  the  page  that  even 
the  vagrant  eye  could  not  help  alighting  upon. 

Enjoyment  is  a  weak  word  to  express  the  pleasure 
and  consolation  I  have  had  in  writing  these  es- 
says. They  forced  me  to  dwell  on  the  things  that 
endure,  and  to  keep  the  flag  of  Idealism  cheerfully 
flying.  By  Vasari!  What  a  lot  I  have  written! 
This  book  is  lengthy,  but  I  could  have  made  it 
half  as  long  again.  You  will  observe  that  I  have 
shaped  the  essays  into  groups — The  Art  of  Today, 
The  Art  of  Tomorrow,  The  Art  of  Yesterday,  Art 
and  Mr.  X.  I  do  believe  that,  according  to 
my  strength  and  vision,  I  have  ranged  the  field  of 
Art  tolerably  comprehensively;  and  if  there  be 
those  who  object  to  the  title  of  the  book — "Art  and 
I" — all  I  can  say  in  defence  is — well,  that  de- 
scribes it.  It  is  my  reaction  to  our  Lady  Art.  I 
love  her.  I  have  spent  much  of  my  life  trying  to 
understand  and  appreciate  her,  and  all  I  have  writ- 
ten here  about  my  adventures  is,  for  better  or 
worse,  just  a  true  tale.  In  other  words  "Art  and 
I"  is  the  record  of  Art  and  myself. 

I  beg  you,  dear  Editor,  to  accept  this  Dedication, 
and  to  believe  that  he  who  pens  it  has  found  in 
writing  for  The  Christian  Science  Monitor  (and 
reading  it)  a  chief  solace  and  satisfaction  of  his 
villeggiatura  in  America. 

C.  L.  H. 
Autumn,  1920 


CONTENTS 


PART  I.— THE  ART  OF  TODAY 


PAGE 
13 


24 
30 


1.  Eyes  or  Ears 

2.  What  Is  Art?  ^^ 

3.  /  Listen 

4.  /  Protest 

5.  "Bare  Spring"  36 

6.  Art  Talk  *2 

7.  /  Pose  ** 

8.  /  Am  Consoled  ^^ 

9.  The  Charm  of  Bad  Pictures  58 

10.  A  "Definite  Job"  ^ 

11.  A  Solitary  ^^ 

12.  Searchers  ^^ 

13.  Success  ^* 

14.  Propaganda 

15.  Do//j  ani  a  Man  '2 

16.  /Fa/fr  Colour  ^"^ 

17.  Architecture  ^^^ 

18.  Practical  Art  ^^^ 

P^/?r  II.— THE  ART  OF  TOMORROW 

1.  .^  Tomorroiv  Picture  **5 

121 

2.  Cezanne  ** 

3.  Freedom  *26 


viii  Contents, 

PAGE 

4.  A  Gauguin  Landscape  132 

5.  Gauguin  in  My  Anthology  138 

6.  Fan  Gogh  142 

7.  Matisse  148 

8.  ^  Master  and  Others  155 

9.  Picasso  160 

10.  Quality  Ul 

11.  Two  Pioneers  175 

12.  Wanted:  A  Name  180 

13.  TAf  pp  P^r  C^n/  186 

P^iJr  in.— THE  ART  OF  YESTERDAY 

1.  O  Rare  Wang  Wei!  195 

2.  Japanese  Prints  202 

3.  Ancient  Art  and  the  Soldier  209 

4.  r//^  Mount  of  Vision  215 

5.  TA^  Juffroww  and  Vermeer  219 

6.  /  //a«^  Holbeins  224 

7.  Leonardo's  Smile  230 

8.  Missing  the  Mark  235 

9.  /^ri  aK<i  M^  Anglo-Saxon  241 

10.  Pesellino  by  the  Sea  247 

11.  £/  Greco's  Modernity  252 

P^/JT  IV.— ART  AND  MR.  X 

1.  Introducing  Mr.  X  261 

2.  Mr.  X  and  Advanced  Art  268 

3.  Mr.  X  and  Presentation  275 

4.  Mr.  X  and  Velasquez  282 

5.  Mr.  X  and  Sun  Painting  290 


Contents  ix 

PAGE 

6.  Mr.  X  and  a  Critic  294 

7.  A  Letter  to  Mr.  X  301 

8.  Mr.  X  and  Mural  Painting  307 

9.  Another  Letter  to  Mr.  X  313 

10.  Mr.  X  Is  Disturbed  318 

11.  Mr.  X  and  Whistler  325 

12.  Mr.  X  in  a  Play  332 

13.  Mr.  X  as  a  Father  339 

14.  Good-bye  to  Mr.  X  344 


'Jii^ 


PART  I 
THE  ART  OF  TODAY 


I 


ART  AND  I 


1.    EYES  OR  EARS 

ONE  day  I  entered  the  shop  of  an  eminent  art 
dealer.  I  did  so  rather  diffidently.  It  re- 
quires courage  to  push  open  the  swing  doors  of 
a  palatial  art  establishment.  Courage  came  to  me 
through  my  admiration  for  a  Primitive  picture  that 
was  exposed  in  the  window.  It  was  a  lovely  thing, 
all  blue  and  gold,  showing  a  procession  of  gay 
youths  and  beautiful  girls,  clothed  as  Florence  knew 
how  to  clothe  her  children  when  art  was  young,  and 
love  of  beauty  was  rife,  and  men  and  women  were 
unashamed  to  dress.  The  gay  procession  swept 
along  to  a  pagoda  where  a  Prince  sat,  and  he  was 
a  fairy  prince,  and  his  table  utensils  were  of  gold, 
and  everybody  seemed  to  be  happy,  because  they 
were  living  in  a  beautiful  world,  where  beautiful 
things  happened,  and  a  man  could  not  be  a  Bolshe- 
vik because  he  loved  his  Prince,  and  was  happier  in 
serving  him  than  in  looking  after  his  own  rights. 
The  frame  of  the  picture,  which  was  flat  and  wide, 
studded  with  blue  and  gold  rosettes,  and  smeared 
with  a  filmy  grey-blue,  like  a  smoky  opal,  seemed 
to  have  grown  with  the  picture. 
13 


14  Art  and  I 

After  gazing  at  this  decoration  for  a  long  time,  I 
said  to  myself,  "I  wish  there  was  a  Circulating 
Picture  Gallery,  like  the  Circulating  Libraries  we 
have  in  England.  I  would  gladly  pay  a  hundred 
dollars  to  have  that  picture  in  my  house  for  a 
month.  It  would  cheer  me,  and  make  me  happy, 
and  make  me  more  charitable  to  those  who  do  not 
appreciate  me."  I  looked  again  at  the  picture,  and 
then  said  to  myself,  "I  wonder  what  it  costs.  I 
wonder  who  painted  it."  With  that  I  pushed  open 
the  swing  doors  and  passed  inside. 
An  elderly  man  with  a  shrewd,  kindly  face  greeted 
me  unostentatiously,  but  with  a  slight  inclination 
of  the  neck,  "Oh,  I  just  wanted  to  ask  the  price  of 
that  picture  in  the  window,  and  who  painted  it?" 
The  Frenchman  at  once  sized  me  up.  Plainly  I 
was  not  a  man  of  substance ;  plainly  I  was  not  worth 
consideration  as  a  buyer  of  an   Italian   Primitive. 

So  the  Frenchman  said,  "The  price,  eh?     Oh " 

His  arms  swept  round,  indicating  an  immense  cir- 
cle of  money.  Then  he  paused,  adding  presently, 
"The  name  of  the  painter?  What  matters  it? 
It  is  a  beautiful  picture!  What  more  would  you 
have?  It  is  from  a  Master's  atelier  surely.  His 
name?  Who  knows?  A  lark  has  no  name.  You 
hear  the  song.  It  is  enough." 
I  murmured  an  apology  and,  being  something  of 
a  diplomatist,  said:  "It  is  a  pleasure,  and  also  an 
education,  to  meet  a  connoisseur." 
The  Frenchman  smiled,  bowed,  and,  being  touched 
by  this  homage  from  a  stranger,  proceeded  to  show 
me  the  pictures,   chiefly   Primitives,   in   his  collec- 


The  Art  of   Today  15 

tion.  He  spoke  of  them  so  delightfully,  so  intelli- 
gently, so  caressingly,  with  such  understanding  of 
the  intention  of  the  painters  known  and  unknown, 
that  when,  an  hour  later,  I  turned  to  go,  I  said, 
"Please  tell  me,  how  did  you  acquire  your  knowl- 
edge of  art?"  To  which  the  Frenchman  answered: 
"My  father  taught  me  to  understand  pictures 
through  the  eyes,  not  through  the  ears." 
Come  to  think  of  it,  that  reply  reveals  the  secret 
of  true  connoisseurship,  and  banishes  from  the 
hierarchy  historians,  delvers  in  archives,  and  all 
those,  the  great  majority,  who  buy  works  of  art 
for  the  names  attributed  to  them,  not  for  the  face 
value  of  their  beauty  and  interest.  A  Turner  and 
a  Gainsborough  sold  recently  in  London  for  large 
prices.  They  were  not  good  examples.  Had  this 
picture  by  Turner,  and  this  picture  by  Gainsbor- 
ough, been  sold  anonymously  they  would  have 
fetched,  well — their  value.  They  reached  those 
large  prices  because  most  collectors  buy  through 
their  ears,  and  because  there  are  a  certain  number 
of  small  but  determined  collectors — ear-buyer  col- 
lectors— who  are  determined  to  have  examples  by 
famous  names.  Rarity  is  the  motive  power  of  auc- 
tion prices,  and  as  Turners  and  Gainsboroughs  be- 
come rarer  each  year  the  prices  sweep  higher  and 
higher.  Rarity  was  the  reason  that  at  auction  a 
first  edition  of  Edgar  Allan  Foe's  "Tamerlane  and 
Other  Poems"  sold  for  $11,600.  "Tamerlane"  has 
little  merit,  but  only  four  copies  of  the  first  edition 
are  known.  It  is  a  poor  poem.  It  is  not  even  a 
beautiful  book.     But  it  is  a  rarity:  hence  the  price. 


1 6  Art  and  I 

It  is  useless  to  scold:  it  is  futile  to  complain  that 
90  per  cent  of  the  world  buys  through  their  ears, 
or  for  rarity.  Obviously,  it  is  better  that  people 
should  collect  through  the  ears  than  not  at  all. 
Indeed,  it  is  rather  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  an  elderly 
couple,  prosperous,  with  a  handsome  bank  balance, 
beginning  to  taste  the  delights  of  patronising  art. 
You  may  see  such  couples  at  any  of  the  fashionable 
evening  auction  sales.  The  gentleman  is  always 
in  correct  evening  dress,  the  lady  is  always  in  re- 
splendent costume.  Be  sure  that  they  have  exam- 
ined the  catalogue  carefully  beforehand,  and  have 
marked  the  works  for  which  they  propose  to  bid. 
The  pictures  of  their  desire  have,  of  course,  been 
painted  by  men  whose  names  they  know. 
In  any  decade  there  are  always  a  few  living  painters 
whose  names,  for  reasons  which  are  not  as  mysteri- 
ous as  might  seem,  have  become  familiar  as  family 
jokes  in  the  art  columns,  and  on  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Bond  Street.  For  these  pictures  the  lady  and  gen- 
tleman who  have  begun  to  patronise  art  bid,  and 
for  none  others.  An  exquisite  interior  by  Smith 
may  appear  on  the  auction  rostrum,  or  a  delicately 
strong  landscape  by  Jones,  but  they  wait  till  a  pic- 
ture by  Brown  is  offered.  For  that  they  bid.  They 
know  Brown's  name.  They  are  not  buying  a  pic- 
ture. They  are  buying  a  Brown.  He  may  be  liv- 
ing, he  may  be  recently  deceased;  but  the  point  is 
he  has  caught  the  ear  of  the  market. 
We  must  be  gentle  and  urbane  with  this  lady  and 
gentleman  who  are  patronising  The  Art  of  Today. 
They  are  beginning.    They  are  having  a  delightful 


The  Art  of  Today  17 

time,  for  few  indoor  sports  are  so  exciting  as  buy- 
ing pictures  at  auction  with  your  own  taste,  your 
own  voice,  your  own  money,  for  your  own  house. 
Besides,  He  and  She  may  improve.  The  power  of 
beauty — beauty  touched  with  strangeness — in  art 
may  be  gradually  revealed  to  them.  They  may, 
half  unconsciously,  glide  into  the  way  of  buying 
with  the  eyes:  through  rejections  they  may  acquire 
taste.  Then  they  will  begin  to  frequent  unimpor- 
tant studios,  and  those  dealers  who  encourage  "les 
jeunes"  and  who  are  connoisseurs,  lovers  of  art  first 
and  dealers  second. 

Perhaps  some  day  they  may  notice  the  lovely  and 
nameless  Primitive  in  the  Frenchman's  window: 
perhaps  He  and  She,  having  learned  to  appreciate 
through  the  eyes,  will  be  drawn  to  it;  perhaps,  who 
knows,  some  day  they  will  actually  acquire  a  pic- 
ture without  a  name,  merely  because  it  is  beautiful. 


2.    WHAT  IS  ART? 

I  HAVE  a  friend:  here  is  an  episode  in  our 
friendship. 
Early  in  life  he  set  his  heart  on  his  own  house, 
and  his  own  bit  of  land.  "In  a  wood,"  he  would 
say,  "on  a  wooded  hill.  My  house  must  be  in  a 
wood.  Trees  are  my  familiars." 
One  day  he  wrote  me:  "The  house  is  nearly  fin- 
ished, the  studio  is  quite  ready.  I  was  there  yes- 
terday. You  might  walk  over — it's  within  three 
miles  of  where  you  are  staying — and  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  my  long-waited-for  Folly." 
I  started  early,  taking  my  luncheon,  with  the  no- 
tion of  exploring  the  intermediate  country.  Lei- 
surely I  covered  the  three  miles.  A  rutty,  half- 
mile-long  lane  wound  out  from  the  main  road.  I 
plodded  along  it  into  a  wood.  The  path  began  to 
ascend  and  there  was  the  gable  of  the  house  lurking 
in  the  trees.  Branches  clawed  at  the  structure:  it 
was  indeed  a  house  in  a  wood.  It  was  nearly  fin- 
ished. As  I  stood  there  thinking  how  little  a  house 
in  a  wood  would  suit  me  (I  want  one  on  a  hill), 
the  carpenters,  who  were  nailing  the  last  cedar 
shingles  on  the  roof  of  the  porch,  eyed  me  curi- 
ously. Higher  up,  30  feet  higher  up,  on  a  level 
with  the  roof  of  the  house,  was  a  smaller  building. 
It  seemed  to  be  quite  completed.  "Ah,"  I  reflected, 
i8 


The  Art  of  Today  19 

"the  studio.  He  does  not  wish  his  work  to  inter- 
fere with  domestic  matters." 

I  entered  the  studio.  It  was  ready  for  occupa- 
tion :  an  ideal  workroom  was  this  wooden  structure, 
15  paces  long,  12  wide,  the  north  side  mainly  glass, 
two  tall  windows  to  right  and  left,  and  peepholes 
at  the  back  through  which  one  peered  into  the  depths 
of  the  forest. 

There  were  an  easel,  two  chairs,  and  a  table,  and 
on  the  table  was  a  copy  of  Tolstoy's  "What  Is 
Art?"  I  smiled.  On  the  south  wall  of  the  studio 
were  10  large  photographs  in  a  line,  affixed  to  the 
boards  with  glass  pushpins.  I  knew  those  10  pic- 
tures well.  Each  was  by  Velasquez.  I  smiled 
again.  Clearly,  my  friend  had  prepared  for  me 
an  aesthetic — or  intellectual — trap — or  lesson. 
A  whistle  sounded  from  somewhere  in  the  woods 
where  lumbermen  were  cutting  timber — the  noon 
whistle.  The  carpenters  threw  down  their  ham- 
mers and  trooped  away  to  their  midday  meal.  I 
was  alone  in  the  clearing  with  Tolstoy's  "What 
Is  Art?"  and  10  photographs  of  pictures  by  Velas- 
quez. For  reasons — he  always  has  reasons — my 
friend  wished  me  to  read  that  book  and  examine 
those  photographs:  did  he  desire  to  have  a  sort  of 
artistic-ethical  studio-warming:  would  he  appear 
later  eager  for  a  talk?  Maybe;  for  over  the  line 
of  photographs  I  noticed  that  he  had  scrawled 
in  chalk  the  words,  "An  hour  before  sunset."  Well, 
the  day  was  my  own,  and  I  had  food.  Why  not, 
under  these  engaging  conditions,  study  "What  Is 
Art?" — a  classic  I  had  never  read,  but  which  cer- 


20  Art  and  1 

tain  Intellectuals  of  my  acquaintance  (who  are 
not  painters,  and  who  know  nothing  about  paint- 
ing) had  praised  without  reserve. 
First  I  turned  to  the  end  of  Chapter  XX,  called 
"Conclusions,"  where  the  old  man  eloquent,  and 
so  single-minded  and  pure  in  heart,  tells  the  reader 
that  the  answer  to  the  question  "What  is  art?" 
had  occupied  his  mind  for  IS  years,  that  he  had 
begun  to  write  upon  it  six  or  seven  times,  but  that 
each  time  he  had  laid  it  aside  because  his  mind 
was  not  sufficiently  matured  on  the  subject.  I 
skimmed  this  chapter,  found  his  conclusion  of  the 
w^hole  matter,  sighed,  then  turned  to  the  first  page. 
On  I  read.  Whenever  I  raised  my  eyes  they  en- 
countered those  Velasquez  photographs,  and  each 
time  I  found  it  harder  to  leave  them  and  to  re- 
turn to  the  book,  for  each  seemed  to  be  saying — 
"I  am  art,"  and  then  the  whole  in  unison  would 
murmur — "We  are  art." 

Tolstoy's  early  chapters  are  not  intriguing.  Ke 
quotes  German  professors.  I  nodded  sleepily.  I 
always  nod  when  gentlemen  with  unpronounceable 
names,  usually  German,  define  beauty.  They  dis- 
agree one  with  another,  and  Tolstoy  usually  dis- 
agrees with  them  all,  and  at  the  end  of  the  chapter 
I  felt  that  I  had  been  merely  wasting  my  time — 
treating  error  as  reality.  Schiller  and  Kant  both 
hold  that  the  end  of  art  is  beauty,  "the  source  of 
which  is  pleasure  without  practical  profit."  That 
seems  rather  like  offering  a  man  the  pips  of  an 
orange.  Amid  these  philosophers  Tolstoy  picks 
his  path:  a  quarter  of  his  way  through  the  book 


The  Art  of  Today  21 

he  reaches  this  sensible  conclusion :  "Art  begins  when 
a  person,  with  the  object  of  conveying  to  other 
people  a  feeling  experienced  by  him,  calls  it  up  anew 
in  himself,  and  expresses  it  by  certain  exterior 
signs." 

I  looked  at  the  Velasquez  photographs  and  mur- 
mured, "Yes,  Master,  that  is  just  what  you  did." 
Tolstoy  in  the  chapter  called  "Beauty  and  Good- 
ness," dips  back  to  Plotinus,  Baumgarten,  Schassler 
and  dozens  of  others:  then  he  begins  to  lash  out. 
Klusic,  poetry;  novels  from  Boccaccio  to  Marcel 
Prevost,  even  Beethoven,  even  Maeterlinck,  come 
under  the  sting  of  his  whip.  Even  himself — for 
this  fearless  preacher  will  teach  nothing  but  the 
highest — even  himself — "I  relegate  to  the  class  of 
bad  art  my  own  artistic  productions  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  story  'God  Sees  the  Truth,'  and 
'The  Caucasian  Prisoner.'"  (I  have  read  them: 
they  are  poor  stories,  quite  unworthy  of  the  author 
cf  "War  and  Peace"  and  "Anna  Karenina.") 
Having  blasted  all  the  producers  of  art  who  have 
any  tinge  of  sensuousness,  he  proceeds  to  a  chap- 
ter on  "The  Crimes  of  the  Critics  and  Art  Schools." 
"Critics  explain!"  he  cries.  "What  do  they  ex- 
plain? The  artist,  if  he  is  a  true  artist,  has,  in  his 
production,  conveyed  to  other  people  the  feeling 
which  he  lived  through:  what  is  there  to  explain?" 
Alas,  so  few  of  us — artists,  critics,  baseball  players 
— are  perfect. 

Next  he  lashes  professionalism :  he  will  have  no  pro- 
fessional artists,  and  no  schools;  then  he  stings  the 
rich  people,  the  upper  classes,  who  have  made  art 


2  2  Art  and  I 

a  special  luxury  for  themselves.  Here  is  his  final 
lash  on  this  subject:  "These  three  conditions — 
the  professionalism  of  artists,  criticism,  and  schools 
of  art — have  brought  it  to  pass  that  the  majority 
of  people  of  our  time  perfectly  fail  to  understand 
even  what  art  is,  and  take  the  coarsest  imitations 
of  art  to  be  true  art."  Alas,  that  is  what  Tolstoy 
himself  sometimes  does. 

In  the  chapter  on  "Art  Good  or  Bad  According 
to  Its  Subject,"  which  is  surely  an  absurd  state- 
ment, I  find  this:  "Concern  for  technical  perfec- 
tion and  beauty,  for  the  most  part  obscures  feeling." 
I  looked  at  the  Velasquez  photographs.  They  are 
a  denial  of  this.  But  I  really  began  to  have  doubts 
about  Tolstoy  as  an  art  guide  when  he  expressed 
high  approval  of  a  tenth-rate  English  picture  be- 
cause the  subject  is  charity — a  Lady  Bountiful  giv- 
ing food  to  a  beggar-boy.  But  how  fine,  how  noble 
are  the  suggestions,  or  rather  statements,  he  makes 
in  the  two  final  chapters,  "How  True  Art  Will 
Come"  and  "The  Art  of  the  Future." 
He  analyzes  "the  reason  of  the  lie"  into  which  art 
has  fallen,  and  decides  that  "the  cause  of  the 
malady  was  the  non-acceptance  of  the  teaching  of 
Christ  in  its  true,  that  is,  in  its  full  meaning." 
And  what,  in  the  view  of  this  great  dreamer,  is  the 
destiny  of  art?  Hear  him:  "To  translate,  from 
the  region  of  reason  to  the  region  of  feeling,  the 
truth  that  the  well-being  of  people  consists  in  their 
union,  and  to  substitute  for  the  present  kingdom 
of  force  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  that  is,  love,  which 
presents  itself  to  us  all  as  the  highest  aim  of  human 


The  Art  of  Today  23 

life.  .  .  .  The  problem  of  Christian  art  is  the 
realisation  of  the  brotherly  union  of  mankind." 
This  great  emprise  may  be  accomplished,  must  be, 
the  world  is  working  toward  it,  but  it  will  be 
accomplished  by  something  greater  than  art,  as  we 
understand  the  word  today. 

Ninety  out  of  a  hundred  artists  regard  their  art 
chiefly  as  a  means  of  earning  a  living,  and  they 
influence  the  world  according  to  the  measure  of 
their  power  and  sincerity.  They  are  spurred  on- 
ward by  the  desire  to  express  themselves  and  to 
excel;  and  when  a  patron  buys  a  picture  the  artist 
is  glad  beyond  the  mere  money:  he  is  glad  because 
he  is  appreciated.  Take  away  the  spur  of  having 
to  make  a  living,  and  to  win  approval;  take  away 
professionalism,  as  Tolstoy  calls  it ;  force  the  artist, 
as  he  proposes,  to  do  other  work,  and  to  paint  only 
when  the  mood  is  on  him ;  make  him  choose  a 
moral  subject  merely  because  it  is  a  moral  subject, 
not  because  it  attracts  him  artistically,  and  you 
extinguish  art.  Velasquez  v/ould  be  blotted  out. 
He  was  great  because  he  expressed  his  best  and 
highest  self.  He  rose  above  his  subjects  which  hap- 
pened to  be  rather  ugly  royal  personages.  He 
painted  greatly  because  he  loved  greatly.    To  love 

your  art  greatly:  that  is  the  secret  of  great  art. 
«        «        * 

It  is  an  hour  before  sundown.  Here  comes  my 
friend.  Why  should  not  I  try  my  hand  at  a  defini- 
tion, why  should  not  I  attempt  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion— "What  is  Art?"  I  take  the  chalk,  I  scrawl 
on  the  wall  three  words — "Art  is  love." 


3.     I  LISTEN 

THE  house,  perched  on  a  grassy  hill,  overlooks 
the  road  winding  to  the  sea.  After  dusk 
there  is  little  traffic,  but  every  twenty  minutes  a 
brilliantly  lamped  trolley-car  bumps  over  the 
tracks,  where,  amid  high  grass,  the  rails  feel  for 
their  level.  This  mass  of  brilliant  lights,  this  swift- 
moving  object  grating  and  whirring,  is  not  unpleas- 
ant. It  reminds  the  secluded  dwellers  in  the  house 
on  the  hill  of  the  outside  world :  it  titillates  with- 
out  disturbing. 

One  sultry  night  a  group  of  men  were  gathered  in 
the  porch.  Three  of  them  were  expert  talkers — 
the  Painter,  the  Illustrator,  and  the  ex-Editor;  and 
in  the  corner  I  sat  stroking  the  handsomest  cat  in 
the  State. 

The  conversation  had  settled  upon  Tolstoy's  "What 
Is  Art?"  Each  had  lately  read  an  essay  on  this 
unanswerable  question:  a  copy  of  the  book  had 
been  borrowed,  and  each  had  been  reading  it. 
"Tolstoy  was  a  very  great  man,"  said  the  Painter; 
"he  was  as  great  in  his  life  as  in  his  books,  and 
if  he  failed  he  failed  gloriously;  he  failed  because 
he  attempted,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  to  live 
primitive  Christianity,  which  is,  of  course,  real 
Christianity.  Art  to  him  was  not  a  craft,  it  was 
an  ideal.  I  hold,  as  you  know,  that  art  is  a  craft. 
24 


The  Art  of  Today  25 

In  the  hands  of  a  great  craftsman,  a  great  genius, 
it  may  teach  and  uplift;  but  such  teaching  and  up- 
lifting is  incidental  to  the  man,  not  to  the  craft. 
Whether  it  be  a  picture,  a  rug,  a  chair,  lustre 
earthenware,  or  apple-green  Chinese  porcelain,  a 
book  or  a  symphony,  the  thing  done  must  be  tech- 
nically satisfactory,  if  not  superb,  and  it  must  ex- 
press the  craftsman's  individuality. 
"Technically  a  good  Gilbert  Stuart  and  a  good 
Albert  Ryder  are  poles  apart,  but  as  each  is  an 
expression  of  himself,  pushed  to  the  limit  of  his 
powers,  each  is  good  art.  Tolstoy's  fallacy  is  that 
he  ignores  technique  and  individuality,  and  asserts 
that  the  end  and  aim  of  painting  is  to  illustrate 
beatitudes.  A  beatitude  can  be  painted  wonderfully 
and  beautifully;  Burne- Jones  did  it  in  'The  Merci- 
ful Knight  Who  Forgave  His  Enemy,'  and  so  have 
many  others,  but  if  the  world  of  art  were  set  to 
paint  beatitudes,  merely  because  they  are  beati- 
tudes, art  would  become  so  boring  that  it  would 
cease." 

"True,"  said  the  Illustrator.  "You  can't  make  the 
world  good  by  means  of  a  Persian  rug,  or  a  Limoges 
enamel,  but  you  can  make  such  things  so  beautiful 
that  the  beholder  realises  beauty  to  the  depth  of 
his  consciousness,  and  his  life  is  the  better  for  the 
vision.  Such  a  vision  brings  exaltation.  The  ob- 
server is  happier  that  day,  and  so  makes  those 
around  him  happier.  Beauty  is  felt;  it  must  not 
be  defined." 

"That's  beautiful,"  cried  the  Painter. 
Their  eyes  followed  the  blazing  trolley-car  flashing 


26  Art  and  I 

through  the  darkness  like  a  gigantic  jewel.  It  raced 
forward;  the  sidewalk  trees,  for  a  brief  moment, 
were  fantastically  illumined. 

"That's  beauty,"  continued  the  Painter,  "and  the 
moral  is  that  light,  even  artificial  light,  beautifies 
everything,  even  a  trolley-car.  Tolstoy  would  never 
consider  such  an  artistic  statement  as  that.  You 
see  that  family  waiting  at  the  Halt.  Ah,  the  car's 
full!  They're  refused  admittance.  Tolstoy  would 
have  wanted  a  picture  made  of  a  group  of  pas- 
sengers jumping  up  and  offering  their  seats  to  that 
tired  family;  but  that  kind  of  picture  wouldn't 
help  to  make  the  world  unselfish." 
"Tolstoy,"  said  the  Illustrator,  "clamoured  for  the 
Illustration  with  a  moral  lesson:  he  barred  the 
artistic  motive  as  unchristian.  Not  that  there's 
anything  wrong  in  the  Illustration.  I  guess  that 
two-thirds  of  our  painters  ought  to  confine  them- 
selves to  the  Illustration.  It  is  all  they're  fit  for: 
an  artistic  painter  is  quite  a  rarity.  Why  don't 
they  illustrate?  There's  all  history  to  choose  from. 
Why  do  Americans  disregard  historical  pictures? 
I  suppose  they  think  it's  beneath  them.  Yet  it 
was  good  enough  for  Giotto,  and  Ghirlandaio,  and 
Pinturicchio.  The  reason  our  public  exhibitions 
are  so  dull  is  because  everybody  is  trying  the  artistic 
motive,  and  few  can  carry  it  through;  so  few  have 
the  artistic  flair  of  a  Whistler,  or  an  Arthur  Davies. 
There  ought  to  be  a  good  communal  studio  where 
craftsman  painters,  who  are  not  artistic,  would 
be  trained  to  paint  sound  historical  pictures.  Sub- 
jects abound.     What  a  picture  could  be  made  of 


The  Art  of  Today  27 

that  memorable  scene,  in  the  cherry  orchard,  at 
Clermont,  where  Pershing  sought  Foch  and  said: 
*I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  the  American  people 
would  consider  it  a  great  honour  for  our  troops  to 
be  engaged  in  the  present  battle;  all  that  we  have 
is  yours;  use  it  as  you  wish.'  That  meeting  was 
the  turning  point  of  the  war.  Is  it  not  a  better 
subject  than  a  sham  picture  of  'Daphnis  and 
Chloe'?  Do  you  remember  the  picture  that 
the  R.  A.  paints  in  Winifred  Grahame's  'Mary'? 
The  title  was  'Have  Pity  on  Joseph's  Wife.'  That 
was  a  real  idea,  and  the  authoress  devotes  half 
the  book  to  illuminating  it.  Our  painters  lack 
thoughts  and  ideas.  They're  always  fumbling  to- 
ward an  artistic  motive,  and  they  haven't  the  force 
of  character  really  to  grapple  with  it." 
"Be  merciful!"  cried  the  Painter.  "Because  a  few 
centuries  ago  there  were  men  of  transcendent  genius 
making  pictures,  a  sort  of  halo  lingers  over  the 
business  of  painting,  and  most  people,  Tolstoy  in- 
cluded, expect  us  to  be  something  much  greater 
than  we  really  are.  Tolstoy  is  like  the  young 
men  who  write  the  editorials  for  the  high-brow 
weekly  journals.  They  use  words  cunningly,  oh, 
words,  words,  words,  but  their  theories  have  little 
relation  to  life.  They  argue  as  if  human  nature 
and  the  basic  fact  of  the  struggle  did  not  exist. 
Take  my  case.  Outside  what  technical  skill  I  pos- 
sess, my  fondness  for  beautiful  things,  and  an  in- 
ability to  make  my  living  any  other  way  than  by 
painting,  I  am  a  very  ordinary  person.  I  became 
an  artist  not  because  I  desired  to  reform  the  world, 


28  Art  and  I 

but  because  I  had  to  earn  my  living,  and  my  choice 
fell  upon  the  career  of  art.  It  happened  in  the 
most  prosaic  way.  I  was  raised  in  a  western  town, 
and  at  fifteen  I  was  apprenticed  to  a  harness  maker. 
I  didn't  like  the  work,  but  that  didn't  matter; 
what  boy  ever  liked  fixed  hours  and  unremitting 
labour?  I  became  an  artist  through  the  dreadful 
theatrical  bills,  all  gaudy  colour  and  gaudier  melo- 
drama, that  were  left  regularly  at  the  shop  for 
display.  Those  bills  seemed  to  me  wonderful. 
They  were  my  initiation  into  the  mystery  of  art, 
and  I  soon  began  to  make  copies  of  the  bills  on 
their  blank  sides.  That  was  my  beginning.  I  had 
found  my  vocation,  my  way  of  earning  a  liveli- 
hood. The  next  step  was  simple.  A  firm  of  lithog- 
raphers in  an  eastern  town  advertised  for  an  artist. 
I  answered  it  and  sent  specimens.  The  firm  en- 
gaged me  at  double  the  wage  I  was  earning  as  a 
bad  maker  of  good  harness.  For  three  years  I 
worked  for  them,  and  then,  with  my  savings  and 
help  from  my  people,  I  went  to  Paris  to  study. 
Glorious  days! 

"Now  I  am  earning  my  living  as  a  painter,  sup- 
porting a  family,  and  realising  that  I  am  one  of 
an  enormous  number  of  artists  who  produce 
goods  for  which  there  is  very  little  demand.  Still, 
in  spots,  it's  a  glorious  life,  and  I  couldn't  do  any- 
thing else.  Really,  I  regard  myself  as  a  high-class 
tradesman  with  certain  goods  to  sell,  with  the  dis- 
advantage of  not  having  any  shop  window  to  show 
them  in.  I  console  myself  with  the  reflection,  which 
is  perfectly  true,   that   50  per  cent  of  my  wages 


The  Art  of  Today  29 

is  in  the  joy  I  take  in  my  work.  A  new  idea,  the 
first  colour  groping  on  a  canvas,  is  like  a  sight  of 
the  Promised  Land;  but  when  I  read  a  book  like 
Tolstoy's  'What  Is  Art?'  I  feel  sort  of  ashamed 
of  myself;  I  feel  that  I  have  so  few  of  the  noble 
and  altruistic  feelings  that  he  seems  to  think  the 
artist  should  have." 

"You've  been  talking  sound  horsensense,"  exclaimed 
the  ex-Editor,  "and  that  is  not  common  among  art- 
ists. I've  suffered  from  them.  I've  known  some 
in  my  time  who  cling  to  the  Tolstoy  idea  that  the 
artist  is  sacred,  separate,  and  apart,  and  not  governed 
by  the  laws  that  ordinary  mortals  obey;  that  he 
has  a  mission.  Nonsense!  Ninety  per  cent  of  the 
working  artists  of  today  are,  as  our  friend  said,  just 
high-class  tradesmen  who  have  high-class  goods  for 
sale.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent  their  being 
prophets  and  teachers  if  it's  in  them,  but  their 
teaching  must  come  through  their  craft.  If  the 
desire  to  teach  is  paramount  in  their  natures,  then 
let  them  be  preachers,  not  artists.  What,"  turning 
to  me,  "do  you  say?  You've  been  very  quiet  all 
the  evening.  As  a  rule,  you're  fruitful  in  ideas. 
What  secrets  have  you  been  whispering  to  that 
handsome  cat?" 

And  I  answered,  "I  was  repeating  to  myself  the 
opening  of  a  poem  by  Amy  Lowell: 

The  cat  and  I 

Together  in  the  sultry  night 

Waited. 
He  greatly  desired  a  mouse, 
I   an  idea. 
Neither  ambition  was  gratified. 


4.    I  PROTEST 

ON  a  pneumatic-tired,  public  automobile  seating 
eleven  passengers,  in  the  course  of  an  extreme- 
ly hot  afternoon,  I  realised  that  I  was  answering 
the  unanswerable  question — "What  is  Art?"  At 
any  rate,  I  decided,  quite  to  my  own  satisfaction — 
What  Art  Is  Not. 

The  bulky  automobile  was  conveying  eleven  opsi- 
mathic  (opsimathy — education  late  in  life)  passen- 
gers through  historic  Boston — Cambridge  (learn- 
ing), Lexington  (battles),  Concord  (transcendental- 
ism), Waltham  (watches),  Walden  (pond)  and 
back  to  Boston  over  the  Harvard  Bridge,  from 
which,  as  the  eyes  sweep  around  to  the  State  House, 
may  be  seen,  in  contour  and  colour,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  architectural  sights  in  New  England. 
From  the  roof  of  the  awning,  above  the  driver's 
head,  hung  a  megaphone.  Into  this  he  roared  in- 
formation, but  the  automobile  went  so  quickly,  and 
the  objects  of  interest  were  so  plentiful,  that  had 
not  I  kept  a  level  head  I  might  easily  have  thought 
that  the  handsome  Ford  Motor  Works  building 
was  Mrs.  Jack  Gardner's  Venetian  palace.  I  re- 
mained tranquil,  in  spite  of  the  heat  and  the  op- 
simathic  excitement,  until  we  had  passed  the  Lex- 
ington Town  Hall.  What  followed  may  be  stated 
in  dialogue  form. 

Gay    Driver — In    that    building,    ladies   and    gen- 
30 


The  Art  of  Today  31 

tlemen,  is  one  of  the  finest  pictures  in  the  world. 
It  goes  by  the  title  of  "The  Dawn  of  Freedom." 
Myself  (pricking  my  ears) — Dear  me,  that's  very 
interesting.      You    really    consider    it    one   of    the 
finest  pictures  in  the  world? 
Gay  Driver — That's  what  I  said. 
Myself — Pray,  who  was  the  artist? 
Gay  Driver — There  you  have  me.     I  haven't  seen 
the  picture,  but  what  I  say,  I  say.    "The  Dawn  of 
Freedom"  is  one  of  the  finest  pictures  in  the  world. 
Mind  your  head.     This  is  leafy  June. 
The  automobile  stops.     The  driver  alights,  pushes 
and   taps   prominent  portions  of  the  engine.      He 
resumes  his  seat.     The  automobile  groans,  grunts, 
leaps  forward. 

Myself    (resuming) — ^What  do  you  do  if  any  of 
your  passengers  question  the  information  you  give 
them?     Do  they  ever  argue  with  you? 
Gay  Driver — Once  in  a  while. 
Myself — A  megaphone  is  not  conducive  to  argu- 
ment.    I  presume  that  you  agree  with  Whistler, 
who,  when  there  were  any  signs  of  dissent  from 
a   group   gathered    about  him,    would   say:      "I'm 
not  arguing  with  you.     I'm  telling  you," 
Gay  Driver  (attending  strictly  to  business) — This 
is  the  Parker  Boulder,  where  the  Minutemen  were 
lined  up.     It  is  inscribed  with  the  words   (raises 
his   voice),    "Standyourground    Don'tfireunlessfired 
upon  butiftheymeantohavewar  letitbeginhere." 
Rightly  or  wrongly,  I  did  not  pay  much  attention  to 
the  Parker  Boulder,  or  the  house  where  John  Han- 
cock and   Samuel  Adams  slept;  I  was  regretting 


32  Art  and  I 

the  publicity  given  to  the  incorrect  art  statement  I 
had  just  heard. 

"Every  morning  and  afternoon  through  the  sea- 
son," I  reflected,  "an  average  of  ten  well-disposed 
people  are  told  that  'The  Dawn  of  Freedom'  is 
one  of  the  finest  pictures  in  the  world.  They  be- 
lieve it  because  they  do  not  take  the  trouble  to 
question  the  information.  In  a  proper  state  of  so- 
ciety such  an  error,  even  on  a  hot  afternoon  in 
June,  would  not  be  allowed.  You  may  say  that 
I  am  fretting  over  a  trifle,  that  this  untruth  is  un- 
important, but  it  is  just  this  indifference  to  truth 
that  explains  the  public  apathy  to  art.  The  public 
is  too  content  to  accept  the  proposition  that  it  is 
not  being  argued  with;  it  is  being  told.  I  am 
troubled." 

My  troubles  were  not  yet  over.  When  the  pneu- 
matic-tired automobile  reached  the  Old  North 
Bridge  at  Concord,  where  "the  embattled  farmers 
stood,  and  fired  the  shot  heard  'round  the  world," 
I  and  my  opsimathic  companions  were  allowed  ten 
minutes  for  refreshment  (lemonade  and  grape 
juice)  and  meditation.  I  was  touched,  poignantly 
touched,  to  see  the  Union  Jack  and  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  entwined  on  the  humble  little  memorial  to 
the  British  soldiers  who  fell  on  April  19,  1775.  On 
the  rough  stone  I  spelled  out  this  inscription 

They  came  three  thousand  miles  and  died 

To  keep  the  Past  upon  its  throne; 
Unheard  beyond  the  ocean  tide, 

Their  English  Mother  made  her  moan. 


The  Art  of  Today  33 

That  is  quite  well  said.  I  felt  good  again.  But  when, 
after  examining  Daniel  C.  French's  excellent  statue 
of  the  "Minuteman,"  I  purchased  a  pretty  hand- 
book prepared  by  the  secretary  of  the  Concord 
Antiquarian  Society,  suddenly  I  became  indignant 
once  more.  Yet  everything  seemed  conducive  to 
repose  and  serenity,  for  I  was  reclining  under  a 
tree,  and  it  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  breezes 
were  those  of  young  spring.  What  disturbed  me 
was  this  sentence:  "The  bronze  statue  of  the 
'Minuteman'  is  the  most  artistic  statue  that  stands 
out  of  doors  in  America."  I  leapt  to  my  feet. 
"That's  another  untruth,"  I  cried  to  the  sylvan 
battleground.  "There  is  'Sherman'  and  'Lincoln' 
and  'Farragut'  and  'Shaw'  and  'Nathan  Hale'  and 
a  dozen  others.  What  is  the  art  world  coming  to?" 
On  the  way  home  I  gave  but  a  glance  at  Lake 
Walden  and  quite  ignored  Waltham  and  Water- 
town.  I  was  revolving  in  my  mind  the  ignorance 
of  the  world  in  regard  to  art,  and  the  sheep-like 
acquiescence  with  which  the  lay  community  accepts 
all  it  is  told,  anywhere,  from  anybody,  about  art. 
I  recalled  my  own  case,  how,  as  a  boy,  through 
the  stupidity  of  an  uncle,  I  had  become  quite  in- 
different to  sculpture  until  I  was  grown  up  and 
capable  of  looking,  thinking  and  reasoning  for  my- 
self. This  well-meaning  but  ignorant  uncle,  whose 
chief  virtue  was  that  he  was  a  Free  Trader,  was 
taking  me  for  a  walk  through  that  dull  and  drab 
section  of  London  knewn  as  Kentish  Town.  He 
paused  before  the  statue  of  Richard  Cobden  and 
raising  his  hat  said:    "A  great  man,  my  boy,  and 


34  Art  and  I 

a  great  work  of  art."  Now  this  statue  of  Richard 
Cobden  happens  to  be  one  of  the  most  common- 
place Victorian  statues  that  rise  in  ugly  isolation 
in  the  streets  of  London.  It  has  not  the  slightest 
pretension  to  be  ranked  as  a  work  of  art.  It  is  a 
mere  mason's  effigy  masquerading  as  art.  The 
uncle,  worthy  man,  thought  that  because  Cobden 
was  a  great  Free  Trader,  and  because  his  statue 
had  been  placed  in  an  important  thoroughfare  by 
an  important  "body  of  subscribers,"  therefore  It 
was  an  important  work  of  art,  as  thousands  have 
thought  since.  The  effect  upon  me  was  this:  "If 
that  is  great  sculpture,"  I  thought,  "I  don't  like 
sculpture."  So  I  avoided  effigies  in  stone  and 
bronze,  and  it  was  many  years  before  the  awakening 
came. 

That  was  due  to  the  fact  that,  on  a  Lord  Mayor's 
procession  day,  I  was  packed,  like  a  sardine,  in 
the  crowd  just  in  front  of  Le  Soeur's  statue  of 
Charles  I  at  Charing  Cross,  London.  Unable  to 
turn  either  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  I  was  forced 
to  rivet  my  gaze  on  the  statue.  I  forgot  all  about 
the  Lord  Mayor  in  realising,  against  my  will, 
what  a  great  and  beautiful  work  of  art  this  statue 
of  King  Charles  by  Le  Soeur  is.  From  that  day 
I  became  a  student  of  sculpture. 
The  loveliness  of  the  view  of  Old  Boston  from 
the  Harvard  Bridge  restored  my  serenity.  Clouds 
had  softened  the  splendour  of  the  dropping  sun,  a 
haze  had  crept  up,  mystery  had  descended  upon 
the  buildings  that  creep  and  cling  duteously  to  the 
curving  Charles  River.    I  thought  of  Whistler  and 


The  Art  of  Today  35 

I  knew  that  it  was  Whistler's  "Ten  O'Clock"  that 
first  gave  me  sight  into  what  art  really  is.  He  an- 
swered the  question — "What  is  Art?"  Tolstoy 
muddled  the  inquiry  with  ethics.  Whistler  went 
to  the  core — straight. 

And  is  there  something  more,  something  else  that 
increasing  understanding  has  brought  to  the  an- 
swering of  the  question,  "What  is  Art?" 
Yes.  The  artist  must  first  perfect  his  technique, 
without  haste,  without  rest.  It  must  always  be 
ready,  in  perfect  working  order,  for  the  great  mo- 
ment. When  is  the  great  moment?  Walt  Whit- 
man said,  "I  loaf  and  invite  my  soul."  An  Eng- 
lish poet  called  it  waiting  for  the  visitation  of  the 
muse. 

But  the  technique  must  be  there,  wrought  out  in 
agony  and  joy,   ready  for  the  visitation,   and  the 
artist  must  be  in  tune.     Otherwise,  the  muse  will 
keep  him  waiting  in  vain. 
"What  is  Art?" 

It  is  the  real  I,  purged  of  dross,  the  real  I  search- 
ing and  consorting  with  my  birthright — beauty. 


5.     "BARE  SPRING" 

THERE  was  a  new  warmth  in  the  air  that  day, 
and  a  new  light  in  the  sky.  "Spring,"  I  said, 
"is  on  the  wing.  I'll  take  a  run  into  the  country 
and  see  how  Felix  is  progressing  with  his  spring 
picture.  The  thought  of  Felix  reminded  me  to  ask 
him  why  my  Ford  self-starter  v/ill  start  once  in  three 
times  only.  He  is  an  excellent  mechanic ;  he  locates 
and  corrects  disharmonies  in  the  automobiles  of  all 
his  painter  acquaintances. 

The  Spring  picture  of  my  friend  Felix  is  some- 
thing of  a  joke.  He  began  it  in  April,  1918;  he 
worked  on  it  in  1919,  he  is  still  labouring  on  "Bare 
Spring."  That  is  the  title.  Early  in  April,  1918, 
standing  on  an  outcrop  of  rock  behind  his  house, 
gazing  over  the  upland  fields  crowned  by  a  wind- 
mill, looking  at  a  peep  of  pink  blossom  at  the  end 
of  a  bough  hanging  over  a  pond,  with  a  pensive 
redbreast  perched  close  by,  he  had  a  strong  sense 
of  the  hidden  movement  of  spring  in  the  dark  fur- 
rows showing  lights  here  and  there,  in  the  sense  of 
growing  things ;  in  the  young  green  on  a  few  of  the 
trees;  in  the  splotches  of  vivid  grass;  in  sprays  of 
white  in  the  sheltered  orchard,  and  above  all  in 
the  weight  of  the  dark  earth  that  he  could  almost 
think  was  moving  with  life.  He  warmed  to  the 
idea,  and  said  "  'Bare  Spring,'  that's  the  title." 
Unfortunately  he  is  not  one  of  those  happy  artists 


The  Art  of  Today  37, 

who  see  the  end  from  the  beginning.  He  makes 
his  experiments  upon  his  picture;  he  is  forever 
changing  the  details;  he  thinks  as  he  paints.  The 
windmill  has  been  converted  into  a  tower,  a  shed 
into  a  white  horse,  a  wheelbarrow  into  a  broken 
down  plough,  and  the  pond  has  disappeared  and  re- 
appeared twice. 

Being  a  determined  "pleinairist,"  he  never  touches 
"Bare  Spring"  in  his  studio !  The  canvas  is  tied 
to  the  easel,  the  easel  is  lashed  to  a  scaffolding,  im- 
bedded in  the  croquet  lawn  (it's  a  bad  lawn  any- 
how) and  there  he  stands  through  the  inclement 
April  weather  excogitating  on  "Bare  Spring." 
We  have  had  many  arguments  as  to  his  method 
of  painting,  I  urging  that  it  destroys  impulse;  that 
the  result  shows  labour  and  no  spontaneity;  that  a 
picture  painted  in  this  way  produces  on  the  beholder 
merely  an  example  of  twentieth-century  technique 
without  the  sense  of  inspiration  and  ecstasy  that 
gives  purpose  and  value  to  a  work  of  art.  To  my 
strictures  he  answers,  "This  is  my  way."  To  that 
I,  of  course,  have  no  answer. 

With  this  in  my  mind  I  had  the  impulse  that  light- 
hearted  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  April,  to  visit 
Felix  and  see  how  "Bare  Spring"  was  progressing. 
For  the  railway  journey  I  selected  a  new  book — 
a  translation  of  Raphael  Petrucci's  "Chinese  Paint- 
ing." It  was  my  half-formed  purpose  to  contrast, 
during  the  journe}?^,  eastern  and  western  methods 
of  painting — Felix's  worried  "Bare  Spring"  and 
say,  the  "Two  Geese"  (illustrated  in  Petrucci's 
book),  by  a  nameless  Chinese  painter  of  the  Sung 


38  Art  and  I 

period,  say  about  1000  A.  D.  The  "Two  Geese" 
seem  projected,  not  painted,  into  the  picture.  They 
are  miraculously  drawn,  the  technique  hidden,  the 
inspiration  of  a  moment  made  lasting.  Another 
picture,  also  illustrated  by  a  Chinese  artist,  cen- 
turies later,  is  of  a  bird  perched  on  a  bough,  a 
bough  timidly  flowering,  that  might  be  the  bough 
and  bird  that  Felix  has  squeezed  into  a  corner  of 
"Bare  Spring."  I  thought,  as  I  read  Petrucci's 
clear  account  of  the  Chinese  philosophical  ideal 
which  forced  that  great  nation  for  centuries  to 
search  for  abstract  form,  what  would  have  been 
the  effect  on  western  art  if  we  had  paid  less  at- 
tention to  Greece  and  Italy,  and  more  to  Korea, 
China  and  Japan.  The  Chinese,  from  the  begin- 
ning, gav'c  small  heed  to  drawing  and  painting  the 
human  figure.  They  divided  the  subjects  of  paint- 
ing into  four  principal  classes — landscape,  man  and 
objects,  flowers  and  birds,  plants  and  insects.  They 
do  not  change.  The  work  of  Ku  Kaichih  tells  us 
of  the  kind  of  painting  that  was  being  done  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  fourth  century,  and  I  read, 
"It  is  such  as  to  indicate  a  long  antecedent  period 
of  cultivation  and  development."  Closing  my  eyes 
to  reflect  on  this  passage  proclaiming  the  ages-old 
excellence  of  Chinese  painting,  I  was  startled  by 
hearing  the  conductor  cry,  "Now,  step  lively,  those 
who're  gettin'  off  here." 
I  stepped  lively.  .  .  . 

I  found  Felix  standing  in  the  same  position  as  I 
had  left  him  last  year,  still  struggling  with  "Bare 
Spring."     In   the  garden  I  noticed   two  new  me- 


The  Art  of  Today  39 

chanical  devices.  In  one  of  them,  a  novel  way  to 
fill  the  bird-bath,  he  had  apparently  made  water; 
run  uphill.  In  my  opinion  he  had  not  improved 
"Bare  Spring."  He  had  turned  the  white  horse 
around,  and  converted  the  tower  into  a  flag-staff. 
The  bare  pole — "bare  spring — see?"  he  remarked. 
The  pond  and  the  wheelbarrow  were  gone;  he  had 
lessened  the  lights  of  the  growing  things  and  gen- 
erally tidied  up  the  picture.  "Why  not  call  it 
'Spring  Cleaning'?"  I  asked.  He  did  not  answer. 
Unabashed,  I  continued,  "A  Chinese  artist  would 
have  indicated  'Bare  Spring'  by  that  dark  bough 
hanging  over  the  pond,  with  a  redbreast  blinking 
at  the  wisp  of  blossom  at  the  end,  and  the  dark 
furrows  stretching  away  limitlessl3^  You  take  a 
countryside  to  express  'Bare  Spring'  and  in  the 
end,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  title,  people  wouldn't  know 
what  the  picture  meant." 

The  imperturbable  Felix  went  on  painting.  Pres- 
ently he  said,  "I  happen  to  be  a  hundred  per  cent 
American,  not  a  Chinese,  and  I'm  going  to  paint 
my  picture  just  in  the  way  I  choose." 
"But  you  don't  mind  if  I  continue  the  argument?" 
"Not  in  the  least.  To  hear  anybody  talking  while 
I'm  painting  rather  helps  me.  I  listen  to  the  drone, 
not  to  the  words." 

I  proceeded  to  interest  myself  by  talking — "Since 
you  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  eastern 
method  of  painting  which,  I  may  remark,  attracts 
me  immensely,  we'll  discuss  the  western  method 
to  which  you  are  chained.  It  seems  to  me,  Felix, 
that  you  and  your  fellows  are  falling  between  two 


40  Art  and  I 

stools.  You  spurn  the  eastern  convention — lyricism, 
spontaneity,  setting  down  in  a  decorative  pattern 
the  quick  suggestion  of  something  quickly  but  deeply 
seen;  you  spurn  that,  and  yet  you  moderns  fancy 
yourselves  superior  to  the  fictional  realism  upon 
w^hich  western  painting  is  built — I  mean  the  Anec- 
dote, classical,  historical,  domestic  or  genre.  But 
it's  in  your  blood,  nevertheless.  You  are  painting 
a  'Bare  Spring'  with  the  laborious  intensity  that 
you  would  give  to  a  'Milton  Dictating  "Paradise 
Lost"  to  his  Daughters'  or  'The  French  Troops 
Entering  Frankfort  with  Colours  Flying.'  It  can't 
be  done,  my  friend ;  spring  won't  stand  it," 
"Come  off,"  said  Felix,  "you're  talking  through 
your  hat," 

"No,  through  my  head.  Painting  in  Victorian  Eng- 
land became  popular  and  esteemed  entirely  through 
the  Anecdote  from  the  Classical,  through  the  His- 
torical to  the  Domestic.  The  Landscape  men,  here 
and  there,  edged  brightly  into  popular  favour,  but 
it  was  the  Anecdotists — Leighton,  Millais,  Poyn- 
ter,  Orchardson,  Richmond,  Burne-Jones,  Briton 
Riviere,  who  made  fortunes  by  their  pictures,  and 
by  engravings  of  them,  and  who  made  the  art  of 
painting  a  lucrative  profession.  Although  you  mod- 
erns have  cast  the  Anecdote  aside,  you  are  still 
Anecdotists  at  heart,  but  your  subjects  are  Nature, 
not  Events.  I  should  like  to  hang  half  a  dozen 
big  landscapes,  worked  upon,  worried  over,  such 
as  your  'Bare  Spring,'  side  by  side  with  half  a 
dozen  of  Briton  Rieviere's  magnificent  Anecdotes, 
say    his    'Persepolis,'    'Daniel,'    'Sympathy,'    'The 


The  Art  of  Today  41 

Night  Watch,'  'Miracle  of  the  Swine,*  and  'Be- 
yond Man's  Footsteps.'  Briton  Riviere  was  a  good 
craftsman.  As  art  productions  I  don't  suppose  that 
his  pictures  are  better  or  worse  than  your  'Bare 
Spring,'  or  than  the  landscapes  that  have  won 
prizes  and  medals  this  year.  But  I  know  this — 
the  Briton  Riviere  things  are  much  more  interest- 
ing to  look  at." 

"At  least,"  Felix  growled,  "we  are  attempting  Art, 
not  Illustration." 

"Nonsense.  You  are  just  painting  exhibition  pic- 
tures, as  Briton  Riviere  did.  It's  your  career,  as 
it  was  his:  you  have  to  fight  your  competitors  as 
he  did ;  and  you  know  perfectly  well  that  this 
'Bare  Spring'  is  not  your  ecstatic  statement  of  the 
wonder  of  the  promise  of  spring:  it  is  not  your  cry 
of  joy  in  the  loveliness  of  the  world,  bare  or 
clothed;  it  is  your  exhibition  picture  by  which  you 
hope  to  ascend  another  rung  up  the  ladder." 
Felix  laughed.  His  temper  is  admirable.  Suddenly 
he  grew  serious,  and  I  vyatched  him  change  a  bit 
of  cloud  into  a  hawk.  Then  he  took  a  piece  of  wire 
and  began  to  readjust  the  easel. 
"You  are  not  very  encouraging,"  he  said,  "yet  I 
don't  know,  perhaps  you  are.  What  do  you  pro- 
pose that  I  should  do?" 

"Either  adopt  the  Eastern  Convention  or  fling  your- 
self shamelessly  into  the  Western  Anecdote." 
"I'd  rather  be  a  motor  mechanic,"  said  Felix. 
Said  I    (but  not  aloud),  "My  dear  fellow,  that's 
just  what  you  ought  to  be,  what  you  were  meant 
to  be,  vnxh  painting  as  a  delightful  relaxation." 


6.    ART  TALK 

A  GROUP  of  artists  and  art  writers  were  gath- 
ered in  a  garden.  The  moon  was  up,  but  it 
was  not  night:  it  was  the  almost  imperceptible 
closing  in  of  a  brilliant  day;  and  the  eyes  of  the 
Traveller,  who  had  arrived  by  train,  still  held  the 
memory  of  the  crimson  ramblers  that  ran,  in  glow- 
ing profusion,  for  miles  along  the  railway  embank- 
ment. But,  he  confessed  to  himself,  the  roses  were 
more  beautiful  in  the  garden  at  that  still  hour. 
There  was  enough  light  to  see  the  goldfish  in  the 
tank,  the  soft  colours  of  many  flowers,  the  greeny 
blue  parrot  swinging  in  his  cage,  and  the  clump  of 
delphiniums  that  rose  against  a  grey-red  rock.  The 
air  was  like  a  chrysoberyl,  the  distance  folded  out- 
ward, not  inward,  and  the  garden  was  aglow  with 
fireflies. 

"It's  too  lovely,"  said  the  Painter.  "Tomorrow  I'll 
have  a  smack  at  those  delphiniums  against  that 
wall.  But  what's  the  good?  I  can't  get  them. 
Nature  beats  us  every  time." 

"Why  talk  about  being  beaten,"  remarked  the 
Traveller.  "There's  no  rivalry.  Nature  gives 
everything.  You  select  and  organise  from  her 
abundance — then  you  give  yourself.  Art,  as  you 
are  aware,  or  unaware,  is  Nature  seen  through  a 
temperament.  Paint  your  delphiniums  against  that 
grey-red  wall.  You  won't  be  giving  us  what  we  see 
42 


The  Art  of  Today  43 

now;  you  can't;  all  you  can  do  is  to  tell  us  how 
that  incomparable  sight  has  impressed  you." 
"Oh,  you  painters  and  writers,"  cried  the  Lady, 
"what  a  fuss  you  make  about  the  things  you  do. 
I  picked  a  handful  of  flowers  this  morning  with 
the  dew  on  them.  I  put  them  in  a  Leeds  bowl. 
The  effect  was  rapturous.  They  were  much  more 
beautiful  than  any  picture.  Nature  beats  Art  every 
time." 

The  Traveller  shook  his  head  sadly.  "I  repeat," 
he  said,  "there's  no  competition.  A  Fantin  Latour 
flower  picture  is  not  Nature." 
"What  then  is  it?"  asked  the  Lady. 
"It's  a  Fantin  Latour  flower  picture.  Many  people 
like  both  nature  and  pictures.  Some  like  nature 
only,  others  only  like  pictures.  Take  the  case  of 
your  uncle.  Where  is  he  at  this  moment?  Seated 
in  his  gallery  in  New  York  enjoying  his  painted 
canvases.  I  asked  him  yesterday  where  he  was 
going  this  summer.  'Nowhere,'  he  answered.  'Why 
should  I  go  away?  I  don't  like  traveling,  I  don't 
like  things  that  fly,  I  don't  like  strange  beds,  I 
don't  really  like  nature,  but  I  love  my  pictures. 
I  like  looking  at  them,  I  like  thinking  of  the  men 
who  painted  them,  I  like  to  contrast  and  compare 
the  various  schools,  so  I  stay  at  home  among  my 
pictures.'  Your  uncle,  dear  lady,  is  a  born  col- 
lector. He  doesn't  want  to  look  at  the  wonderful 
sky  arching  above  us  now,  or  at  that  streak  of 
light  on  the  barn  door;  he  wants  to  look  at  his 
Cazins  and  his  Twachtmans.  No,  art  and  nature 
are  quite  different.     An  artist  must,  of  course,  go 


44  Art  and  I 

to  nature,  the  mother  of  all,  for  his  information, 

and  for  a  few  facts,  but " 

"See,  I've  caught  a  fireflj^,"  shouted  the  small  son 
of  the  house.  "Father,  why  don't  mosquitoes  light 
up?" 

Their  Host  did  not  attempt  to  answer  that  difficult 
question.  He  allowed  the  talk  to  drift  into  that 
imbroglio  of  conversation;  whether  beautj^  is  in  the 
beholder,  or  in  the  object  he  beholds.  And  as  they 
talked  the  evening  grew  lovelier. 
*         *         * 

When  their  Host  had  returned  from  putting  his 
small  son  to  bed  (his  wife  is  an  advanced  woman) 
he  made  an  ungallant  remark.  "I'm  glad  that 
Post-Impressionist  flapdoodle  stuff  has  met  its 
doom.  It's  gone  forever,  I  guess." 
There  was  a  polite  silence.  Then  the  Traveller 
spoke.  "When  you  see  a  field  of  golden  com, 
don't  you  give  any  thought  to  the  fertilisers  and 
the  various  chemical  compounds  that  have  made 
that  field  of  golden  corn  what  it  is?  Post-Im- 
pressionism has  given  just  that  service  to  modern 
art.  More:  it  has  liberated  art,  given  the  artist 
freedom  from  the  lifeless  conventions  that  bound 
him.  More:  it  has  entered  into  its  own  kingdom. 
Do  you  know  that  most  of  the  war  pictures  of 
any  value  are  Post-Impressionistic  in  character? 
The  painted  illustrations  by  the  old  gang,  fine  as 
some  of  them  undoubtedly  are,  are  mere  state- 
ments of  fact.  I  read  their  message  as  I  read  the 
account  of  the  landing  of  the  British  dirigible  R-34 
at  Mineola.     I  have  acquired  information.     There 


The  Art  of  Today  45: 

is  nothing  more  to  say.  So  with  Anna  Airy's  'Cook 
House  at  Witley  Camp  and  Laura  Knight's  'Physi- 
cal Training.'  I  admire  them,  especially  'Physical 
Training,'  but  when  I  have  assimilated  their  facts, 
as  I  assimilated  the  fact  of  the  landing  of  the  R-34, 
the  episode  is  ended.  I  don't  want  to  look  at 
them  again.  How  different  is  it  with,  say,  Wynd- 
ham  Lewis'  'Canadian  Gunpit,'  Paul  Nash's  'Void,' 
and  W.  Roberts'  'The  First  German  Gas  Attack 
at  Ypres.'  These  are  Post-Impressionistic  pictures. 
They  are  expressions  of  impressions:  they  lead  out- 
ward; they  set  the  imagination  working.  Before 
these  pictures  how  can  you  say  that  the  Post-Im- 
pressionist flapdoodle  has  met  its  doom.  It  is  very 
much  alive;  it's  'kicking  out.'  We  are  feeling  the 
kicks  and  enjoying  the  thuds.  We  are  reacting 
to  them." 

"You're  talking  through  your  hat,"  said  their  Host. 
He  frowned  and  looked  disturbed.  The  Lady 
plucked  a  rose  and  smiled  encouragingly.     And  the 

night  grew  lovelier. 

*         *         * 

Presently  up  the  warm  violet  path  came  The  Man 
Who  Was  Late.  He  had  fuzzy-wuzzy  hair;  he 
wore  glasses;  but  they  could  not  veil  the  kindly 
watchful  brown  eyes;  he  was  clothed  in  white,  and 
he  talked,  oh,  how  he  talked,  without  effort  and 
with  level  animation.  The  parrot  started  him.  He 
remarked  upon  its  greens  and  blues  beside  the  blue 
delphiniums  and  against  the  grey- red  rock.  He 
talked  of  colour,  of  a  man  in  London  who,  with 
some  queer  instrument  of  his  own   invention,   is 


46  Art  and  I 

recording  the  colours  of  musical  compositions ;  of  a 
woman  in  New  York  who  is  throwing  mobile  colour 
upon  a  sceen  from  a  lantern — dawns  and  sunsets  and 
celestial  combinations  such  as  the  morning  stars  may 
have  seen  when  they  shouted  for  joy.  He  talked 
of  abstract  colour  pictures  that  are  being  painted, 
decorations,  giving  to  the  walls  of  rooms  a  sig- 
nificance that  will  startle  the  makers  of  traditional 
pictures  into  despair  and  emulation.  He  talked, 
but  never  of  himself;  his  talk  was  always  of  what 
somebody  else  was  doing.  He  was  the  interpreter, 
telling  of  an  unheeded  source  of  wonders  of  colour 
and  form,  imprisoned  in  the  universe,  which  his 
companions  were  seeking  and  finding. 
So  The  Man  Who  Was  Late  talked ;  then  he  went, 
silently  as  he  had  come  into  the  blue  night,  through 
the  rain  of  fireflies. 

Hardly  had  he  disappeared  when  the  Traveller  said : 
"A  curious  person  that;  a  strange  man!  He's  a 
wonderful  talker,  as  j^ou  see.  But  that  isn't  all. 
He  demonstrates.  He  asked  me  to  a  demonstra- 
tion the  other  day  in  his  upper  room,  and  I'm  glad 
to  think  that  I  tumbled  to  the  lesson  he  had  pre- 
pared for  me.  He  didn't  have  to  explain.  As  you 
know,  he's  a  photographer,  among  other  things, 
perhaps  the  best  photographer  in  the  world.  He 
showed  me  a  batch  of  his  photographs,  his  latest 
work,  the  result  of  years  and  years  of  study.  Three 
of  them  he  was  content  with.  They  amazed  me. 
I  could  hardly  believe  that  they  were  camera  work 
untouched  by  the  hand.  Light  was  his  assistant. 
Nothing  else.    One  was  superb.    There  isn't  a  liv- 


The  Art  of  Today  47 

ing  painter  or  sculptor  who  wouldn't  have  been 
proud  to  sign  it. 

"He  had  shown  me  what  the  eyes  see.  That  was 
Act  I. 

"Then  he  showed  me  twenty  or  thirty  paintings. 
What  shall  I  call  them — colour  harmonies,  colour 
rhythms,  colour  sensibilities?  Some  had  a  founda- 
tion of  a  figure  or  a  tree,  but  most  of  them  were 
colour  abstractions,  each  following  some  law  which 
I  could  glimpse,  but  could  not  follow.  Some  law 
— I  could  only  think  of  Browning's  line:  "All's  love 
yet  all's  law.'  Do  you  take  me?  These  were  Act 
II.  Act  I  was  'What  the  Eyes  See.'  Act  II  was 
'What  the  Heart  Feels.'  A  curious  man.  He's 
a  fine  talker,  and  his  talk  springs  from  the  environ- 
ment of  the  moment.  Tonight  it  was  that  blue 
and  green  bird  among  the  fireflies  that  set  him 
going." 

As  the  Traveller  said  these  words  the  parrot  cried, 
"Cut  it  out!     Forget  it." 
And  their  Host  remarked,  "That  bird's  a  genius." 


7.    I  POSE 

WE  were  relaxing  in  the  Sun  Parlour  in  the 
early  afternoon  of  a  lovely  winter  day.  Per- 
haps we  had  earned  the  indulgence.  Through  the 
long  morning  the  Painter  had  been  working  hard 
in  his  big,  bare  studio  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  house;  his  Wife  had  been  strenuous — domes- 
tically; so  had  his  Niece;  his  Nephew  had  been 
oilily  correcting  a  disharmony  in  the  automobile, 
and  I  had  been  coaxing  the  recalcitrant  pen. 
We  sat  and  looked  at  nature.  It  was  an  ideal 
place.  The  glass  octagonal  Sun  Parlour  outran  the 
house  to  a  broad  spur  of  the  hill,  and  all  around 
and  beneath  stretched  and  rambled  garden,  village, 
ridge,  woods,  and  river.  The  water  was  frozen ; 
tiny  figures  swept  by  swiftly,  skating.  The  sun 
flushed  the  red  roofs  and  set  the  panes  afire;  the 
snow  in  shadow  was  blue;  whichever  way  we  looked 
through  the  circle  of  windows  our  eyes  met  the 
serene  abundance  of  nature,  clear,  frosty,  kindly. 
For  an  hour  and  more  we  talked  of  the  view,  draw- 
ing each  other's  attention  to  particular  aspects, 
subtleties  of  light,  vagaries  of  colour;  and  the 
Nephew,  who  is  something  of  a  poet,  peering  into 
memory  repeated: 

Pale,  yellow  river  and  a  lemon  sky, 

A  heron  calling; 
Restless,  dim  woodlands  where  cold  shadows  He, 

And  wan  leaves  falling. 
48 


The  Art  of  Today  49 

It  was  the  moment  for  poetrj^,  and  I  asked  if  any- 
one knew  the  author  of: 

Whate'er   thou    lovest   most 

E'en  that  become  thou  must; 
God,  if  thou  lovest  God, 
Dust  if  thou  lovest  dust. 

No  answer  was  given,  because  the  Painter  suddenly 
claimed  our  attention.  For  some  minutes  he  had 
been  fingering  his  moustache,  and  his  face  had 
flushed  deeper  as  he  stared  through  the  facing 
window;  he  moved  his  head  quickly.  Such  signs 
I  knew.  The  desire  to  paint  was  functioning 
within  him.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  the  words, 
"I'm  going  to  make  a  sketch.  Hurry,  or  the  light 
will  go."  Our  hour  of  indulgence  Avas  over,  ban- 
ished. There  was  commotion.  I  realised  that 
when  the  Master  wants  to  work,  everything  gives 
way  to  his  desire.  His  Wife  put  down  her  needle- 
work, disappeared,  and  came  back  with  an  easel. 
Turning  to  his  Nephew,  the  Painter  said,  "Just 
run  down  to  the  studio  and  bring  back  the  two 
small  canvases  leaning  against  the  north  wall."  To 
his  Niece  he  said,  "See  if  there  is  another  bottle 
of  turpentine  on  the  shelf  in  the  library.  Stay, 
I'll  go  with  you  and  get  the  palette.  Did  those 
new  colours  come?"  I  left  my  seat  in  the  window, 
and  sank  into  a  chair  behind  the  easel.  "Am  I 
in  the  way?"  I  asked,  when  he  returned  with  the 
palette.  "Not  in  the  least.  But  I  must  be  quick. 
The  effect's  going." 

He  began  to  paint — feverishly,  fiercely.  I  watched 
him  with  curiosity  and  with  admiration.     He  was 


50  Art  and  I 

so  quick;  he  sketched  in  the  view  with  such  deci- 
sion— a  section  of  the  room,  the  arching  windows, 
and  the  bright,  cold  panorama  beyond.  Suddenly 
he  said,  as  if  talking  in  a  dream,  "There  was  some- 
body sitting  against  the  light.  I  want  that  black 
spot."  My  modest  voice  answered, 
"Yes,  I  was  there.  Shall  I  go  back?" 
"Please." 

I  obeyed,  taking  an  easy  sideways  pose. 
Presently  he  said,  "Take  hold  of  a  book  and  pull 
your  cuff  down.     I  want  a  high  light." 
I  took  the  nearest  book,  the  Corcoran  Gallery  cata- 
logue of  the  Exhibition  of  Contemporary  American 
Artists. 

"Can  I  read  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,   do  anything  you  like"    (this  rather  ir- 
ritably).     Then,   with    more   composure,    "You've 
got  a  very  paintable  head." 
I  smiled. 

Silence  for  ten  minutes,  during  which  I  read  the 
names  of  the  painters  who  have  won  the  Corcoran 
Gold  Medal,  and  wondered  if  they  would  have 
been  my  choice. 

Scribbled  on  the  bottom  of  the  page  was  a  quota- 
tion from  Renoir,  "On  ne  se  dit  pas,  'Je  serai 
peintre,'  devant  un  beau  site,  mais  devant  un 
tableau."  I  was  meditating  on  this  when  the 
Painter  cried,  "That  book's  too  dumpy.  Take  a 
larger  one.     Here!" 

He  threw  me  a  folio  pamphlet,  which  I  caught 
deftly.  "Don't  fiddle  with  it,"  he  cried.  "Hold  it 
naturally  as  if  you  were  reading." 


The  Art  of  Today  51 

Trying  to  hold  it  naturally  I  read  the  title — 
"  'Frauds  in  Historical  Portraiture,  or  Spurious  Por- 
traits of  Historical  Personages,'  by  Charles  Henry 
Hart."  That  suggested  good  reading,  and  for  the 
next  hour  I  dipped  into  page  after  page,  only  to  re- 
ceive from  the  Painter,  when  I  had  found  some- 
thing especially  interesting,  a  quick  request  to  sit 
up,  or  to  hold  the  book  farther  away.  But  I  learnt, 
indeed,  what  I  already  knew,  that  m.any  old  por- 
traits are  portraits  of  somebody  else,  and  those  that 
are  really  historical  portarits  are  often  so  unlike  that 
the  mothers  of  the  sitters  would  not  have  recognised 
them.  The  Assyrians,  Eg}-ptians,  Greeks  and  Ro- 
mans were  content  with  conventional  effigies;  the 
Italians  of  the  Great  Age  were  more  concerned 
Vv'ith  producing  works  of  art  than  likenesses.  Velas- 
quez achieved  works  of  art  because  he  painted  the 
Royal  House  of  Spain  so  often  that  "getting  a  like- 
ness" did  not  trouble  him;  he  could  allow  his  art 
free  play.  Romney  knew  Lady  Hamilton  so  well 
that  he  was  never  handicapped  by  the  necessity  of 
copying  her  features,  and,  as  for  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  who  can  say  that  his  great  Portraits  of 
Parade  were  like  the  ladies  who  posed  to  him  in 
glades  or  in  arched  marble  colonnades.  When 
Reynolds  and  Gainsborough  painted  the  same  Per- 
sonage it  is  curious  how  unlike  they  could  be.  Some 
of  the  best  modern  portraits  are  nameless,  that  is, 
the  painter  set  himself  to  produce  a  work  of  art, 
ignoring  the  bother  of  the  likeness.  The  reason 
why  so  many  modern  portraits  are  dull  and  mo- 
notonous is  because  the  painter  has  been  paid  for 


'52  Art  and  I 

a  likeness,  not  for  a  work  of  art.  He  knows  that 
when  the  portrait  is  sent  home  the  family  will  ask, 
"Is  it  like  Papa  or  Mamma?"  not,  "Is  it  beauti- 
ful?" or  "Is  it  a  work  of  art?"  Then  I  said  to 
myself,  "What  is  he  making  of  ME?"  Furtively 
I  glanced  at  the  Painter. 

He  was  engrossed,  working  with  fervour,  oblivious 
of  his  surroundings,  and  of  his  cramped  and  obe- 
dient sitter. 

I  released  my  eyes  from  him,  turned  to  another  page 
of  the  catalogue,  and  read  that  the  earliest  au- 
thentic life  portrait  that  we  know  is  the  famous 
portrait  of  Dante,  in  the  Bargello  of  Florence, 
painted  by  Giotto,  which  probably  owes  its  preserva- 
tion to  having  been  covered  until  1840  with  layer 
upon  layer  of  whitewash.  Turning  to  another  page 
of  the  pamphlet  I  learned  that  when  Sir  Francis 
Galton  sat  for  his  portrait  he  beguiled  the  time 
by  counting  the  number  of  strokes  of  the  artist's 
brush.  They  numbered  20,000,  and  Sir  Francis 
Galton,  being  Sir  Francis  Galton,  when  the  work 
was  finished,  did  not  ask  if  the  product  was  a  like- 
ness, or  beautiful,  or  a  work  of  art.  The  question 
he  asked,  thinking  of  those  20,000  brush  strokes, 
was — "Have  painters  mastered  the  art  of  getting 
the  maximum  result  from  their  labour?"  I  was 
about  to  seek  for  other  titbits  in  the  pamphlet  when 
the  Painter  cried,  "We'll  stop.  Light's  gone." 
I  arose,  and  walked  to  the  easel.  It  was  a  vivid 
sketch,  bold  and  bright  in  colour,  and  finely  con- 
structed. Of  course,  what  interested  me  was  the 
figure  reading  the  pamphlet.     It  was  quite  hand- 


The  Art  of  Today  53 

seme,  but  it  would  have  been  useless  for  a  passport. 
"Are  you  pleased  with  jour  model ?"  I  asked. 
"You  make  a  good  black  spot,"  he  answered,  wiping 
his  brushes. 


8.     I  AM  CONSOLED 

I  HAD  been  in  New  York  a  month.  The  mathe- 
matical laying  out  of  the  city  into  avenues  and 
streets  appealed  to  my  sense  of  method,  but  the 
noise  and  hustle,  the  height  of  the  buildings,  the 
stampede  of  the  crowds  (whither?  whither?)  jarred 
and  affronted  my  sensibilities.  I  compared  my  con- 
dition to  an  geolian  harp,  the  strings  of  which  had 
been  bruised  by  a  gale. 

True,  I  had  experienced  summary  aesthetic  sensa- 
tions, such  as  the  sight  from  Fifty-ninth  Street 
Bridge,  after  nightfall,  of  the  climbing  city  lit  by 
a  thousand  lights ;  but  this  and  other  spectacles  had 
bewildered  without  nourishing  my  sense  of  beauty. 
My  thought  was  clogged,  my  heart  was  heavy: 
there  seemed  no  place  in  the  maelstrom  w^^ere  I 
could  sit  down  and  remember;  where  I  could  ex- 
perience the  intimacy,  encouragement  and  consola- 
tion of  art. 

And  I  felt  lonely,  the  inert  loneliness  that  a  great 
city  provokes.  Once  only  during  that  long,  exact- 
ing day  had  my  lips  uttered  a  remark.  It  was  in 
response  to  a  curt  command  from  the  conductor 
of  a  street  car.  "Pardon  me,"  I  had  replied,  "by 
nature  and  disposition  I  am  unable  to  step  lively." 
I  have,  as  I  have  already  remarked,  a  methodical 
mind.  First,  when  I  had  settled  down,  I  investi- 
gated  the   chief   avenues  of   New  York;    I   then 

54 


The  Art  of  Today  55 

explored  the  chief  cross-streets;  and  it  was  in  a 
cross-street  whose  numeral  I  cannot  remember  that 
I  encountered  art,  and  met  my  joy  again. 
It  happened  fortuitously — a  gush  of  exaltation,  as 
if  from  a  hidden  spring,  in  the  way  that  vital  and 
significant  experiences  in  life  usually  happen.  I  had 
paused  at  a  newspaper  stall  in  one  of  the  most 
crowded  of  the  cross-streets,  had  read  on  the 
front  page  of  an  evening  journal  the  announce- 
ments, "Zep  Up  Eight  Miles,  Italian  Flies  ISO 
Miles,"  and  I  had  turned  away  with  a  shudder, 
for  I  was  in  no  mood  for  additional  material  facts, 
however  noteworthy.  As  I  turned  away,  heart- 
heavy,  my  eyes  fell  upon  two  coloured  pictures,  re- 
productions, in  a  glass  frame  affixed  to  the  door- 
way of  an  office  building. 

I  looked,  and  the  nightmare  of  the  streets  passed; 
I  looked,  and  art  opened  her  arms  and  whispered; 
"Be  comforted.    Be  glad." 

What  I  saw  was  no  novelty.  A  cup  of  cold  water 
in  a  desert  is  no  novelty.  Yet  it  was  new  to  me 
that  day  because  all  great  work  is  lastingly  new. 
The  pictures  that  claimed  my  eyes  were  coloured 
reproductions  of  two  works  by  Degas.  Some  people 
would  call  them  ugly,  even  repulsive,  because  the 
subjects  are  ballet  girls  and  washerwomen;  but  to 
me  they  had  the  endless  beauty  of  supreme  crafts- 
manship, piercing  vision,  and  fine  colour,  the  thing 
seen  with  sane  eyes  and  executed  with  quick  vitality. 
Moreover,  they  fulfilled  the  condition  that  I  like 
to  impose  on  works  of  art,  which  is  this:  Can  they 
be  described  by  one  word?     These  two  works  by 


56  Art  and  I 

Degas  absolutely  met  that  requirement.  The  pic- 
ture of  "The  Dancer,"  a  ballet  girl  pirouetting 
down  the  stage,  was  the  personification  of  Move- 
ment; the  picture  of  the  two  "Laundresses,"  mas- 
sive figures,  labouring  under  their  baskets  of  linen, 
was  the  personification  of  Weight.  Degas,  in  this 
picture,  gives  the  weight  of  the  human  figure,  as 
Cezanne  gives  the  weight  of  the  earth.  Degas 
paints  the  essentials  only;  he  abjures  rhetoric  and 
emotion.  He  gives  us  the  epic  of  the  laundry,  as 
Millet  gives  us  the  epic  of  the  fields. 
I  climbed  the  stairs  of  the  building,  eager  to  buy 
these  coloured  reproductions.  The  "Laundresses" 
cost  me  a  dollar,  "because,"  said  the  assistant  in 
the  print  shop,  "there  is  such  a  demand  for  it." 
I  saw  other  works  by  Degas  in  that  chamber  on  the 
top  floor,  and  a  number  of  reproductions  in  colour 
by  various  painters  who  have  come  to  the  front  in 
the  big  business  of  picture-making.  Among  them 
were  works  by  Napier  Hemy,  Royal  Academician  of 
Falmouth,  England,  a  painter  of  the  sea,  prolific 
and  pictorial,  who  had  a  successful  career,  and  who, 
in  a  fugitive  way,  is  connected  with  Degas  because 
their  earthly  activities  ceased  about  the  same  time. 
I  sat  by  the  open  window  of  that  print  shop  in  an 
upper  chamber  and  mused  on  these  two  painters, 
sa3'ing  to  myself:  "If  I  can  place  them,  contrast 
and  compare  them,  I  shall  learn  something  of  the 
enduring  purpose  of  art.  Now,  why  am  I  hot  about 
possessing  a  Degas,  and  why  am  I  lukewarm  about 
possessing  a  Napier  Hemy? 
"First,"    I   continued,    "I   should   never  tire   of  a 


The  Art  of  Today  57 

Degas,  but  I  should  soon  be  weary  of  a  Hemj^ 
Why  is  this?  Primarily  because  Degas  is  by  far 
the  greater  artist.  Hemy's  subjects — the  dancing 
waves,  the  salt  wind,  the  breathless  avocations  of 
those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships — are  much 
more  sympathetic  to  me  than  Degas'  ballet  girls, 
washerwomen,  race  horses  and  cafe  habitues.  Yet 
Degas  wins  each  time.  He  soars.  Hemy  sinks. 
It  is  the  difference  between  a  poem  by  Browning 
and  a  poem  by  Longfellow,  One  has  thought  and 
feeling,  the  other  has  only  feeling. 
"Degas  stands  for  those  French  artists,  a  command- 
ing group  who  bring  to  their  work  a  rare  intel- 
lectual equipment.  They  are  thinkers,  makers  of 
epigrams  and  tellers  of  their  mental  processes  in 
talk  and  print.  Degas  reasoned,  argued,  rejected, 
and  in  his  pictures  he  gives  the  fine  essence  of  his 
intellectual  emotional  life,  all  he  has  learnt  about 
character,  light  and  colour.  His  pictures  grip  and 
abide,  as  'The  Ring  and  the  Book'  grips  and  abides. 
Napier  Henry's  sea  frolics  and  river  episodes  glide 
past  us  as  'Evangeline'  glides  away  in  a  mist  of 
pretty  platitudes." 

So,  having  purchased  "Laundresses"  for  a  dollar, 
I  returned  to  the  cross-street,  and  with  the  picture 
tucked  under  my  arm  I  felt  so  serene  that  I  pre- 
served my  equanimity  when  every  street  car  in  Lex- 
ington Avenue  refused  to  stop  to  carry  me  up- 
town. 
I  had  rediscovered  the  consolation  of  art. 


9.    THE  CHARM  OF  BAD  PICTURES 

LONG  ago,  when  I  began  to  be  interested  in 
American  painting,  I  made  this  note  in  mj' 
diary;  "Hudson  River  School — Native  group  o 
painters;  racial;  national  flavour.  Must  see  them." 
The  promised  day  came,  in  New  York,  when  I 
learned  that,  in  honour  of  the  completion  of  the 
Catskill  Aqueduct,  a  collection  of  paintings  of  the 
Hudson  River  School  had  been  assembled  in  room 
25  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum. 
Thither  I  went ;  but  my  quest  for  room  twenty-five 
took  a  long  time — such  delightful  delays.  Here  I 
dallied,  there  I  dallied,  before  objects  that  made 
my  heart  beat  fast.  All  was  new  to  me.  I  could 
have  spent  the  whole  afternoon  in  the  Armory  Ex- 
hibition Hall:  I  could  hardly  tear  myself  away 
from  two  seated  Egyptian  statues  of  a  "Secretary 
and  His  Wife,"  B.  C.  1300.  Plastic  art  changes, 
but  who  dare  say,  looking  at  these  two  figures,  that 
it  advances.  They  are  serene,  unmoved,  enduring. 
The  group  of  Rodin's  marbles  is  alive  with  mo- 
mentary and  exquisite  pity  and  emotion.  Wonder- 
ful is  "The  Hand  of  God,"  wonderful  is  "The 
Thinker,"  but  the  very  emotional  intensity  of  these 
works  lures  me  to  the  reverent  repose  of  Egypt's 
unknown  craftsmen.  It  is  ancient  Egypt,  not  mod- 
ern France,  that  is  inspiring  the  best  of  our  younger 
sculptors. 

58 


The  Art  of  Today  59 

Nor  could  I  tear  myself  away  from  certain  of  the 
pictures — the  two  Gilbert  Stuarts,  portraits  of  a 
Spaniard  and  his  wife,  so  extraordinarily  fresh  and 
vivid;  Rembrandt's  "Old  Woman  Cutting  Her 
Nails,"  a  distasteful  theme  made  beautiful  by  un- 
derstanding genius.  It  is  concentration  Rembrandt 
has  painted,  not  an  episode  of  the  toilet.  How  I 
enjoyed  a  faded,  discoloured,  unfinished  work  by 
Lucas  von  Leyden,  which  time  and  abuse  have 
made  doubly  lovely,  and  (my  taste  is  catholic) 
Sargent's  "Henry  C.  Marquand"— his  best  portrait. 
These  significant  things,  and  others,  delayed  me. 
An  hour  and  a  half  must  have  passed  before  I 
entered  room  twenty-five,  and  found  myself  among 
the  Hudson  River  School  pictures. 
I  sighed,  and  had  I  been  a  man  of  sentiment  I 
would  have  dropped  a  tear.  They  were  so  dark 
and  dowdy,  so  unexhilarating  and  uneventful.  "Bad 
Claudes,  bad  Sidney  Coopers,  bad  Leaders,"  I  mur- 
mured. Two  of  them  I  liked  a  little — a  "Camp 
Meeting"  by  Whittredge  and  "Bayside"  by  David 
Johnson — and  I  acknowledged  the  rhetorical  glow 
of  Church's  "Parthenon";  and  the  glimmer  of 
Cu3^p's  gold  in  Gilford's  "Kaaterskill  Cove";  but 
most  of  them  lacked  all  that  I  like  in  landscape 
painting — colour,  selection,  rhythm;  above  all 
colour,  the  pure  abstract,  vocal  colour  that  is  the 
new  note  in  lanscape  painting. 
"But  I  must  be  just,"  I  reflected.  "At  any  rate 
these  men  were  pure  American.  No  foreign  influ- 
ences touched  them  except  the  invitable  Claude 
and  Poussin.     But "     I  yawned,  and  strolled 


6o  Art  and  I 

away  meditating  on  the  development  of  landscape 
painting  in  America.  "Being  a  young  and  vigorous 
nation,  of  course  they  were  elderly  and  timid  in 
art.  That's  a  law.  These  Hudson  River  men, 
who  plodded  through  the  early  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury, conformed  to  the  tradition  of  the  day.  Later, 
when  the  rush  to  Paris  began,  their  descendants 
conformed  to  Impressionism  as  they  had  conformed 
to  Classicism.  They  did  it  uncommonly  well,  but 
it  is  not  unfair  to  say  that  their  works  are  French 
pictures — French  in  vision  and  treatment — painted 
by  Americans.  But  many  of  them  were  now  no 
longer  Americans.  They  had  become  cosmopoli- 
tans, and  the  outstanding  figure  is  John  Sargent, 
born  in  Italy  of  American  parentage,  trained  in 
Paris  and  living  in  England." 
With  that  my  thoughts  flew  to  the  Brooklyn  Mu- 
seum, to  the  groups  of  water  colours  by  Sargent — 
factual  vision  and  furious  virility — and  to  the  Wins- 
low  Homer  water  colours — factual  vision  and  furi- 
ous virility  again,  so  different  from  Whistler's  sen- 
sitised crepuscular  vision. 

I  said:  "If  Sargent  is  the  greatest  cosmopolitan 
master,  Winslow  Homer  is  the  greatest  indigenous 
American  master.  Why,  he  was  an  old  master 
while  he  was  still  painting.  He  makes  the  Hudson 
River  men  look  like  amateurs. 
Hurrying  to  room  fifteen,  I  stood  before  "Cannon 
Rock"  and  "Moonlight,  Wood's  Island  Light," 
Winslow  Homer's  masterpieces. 
It  is  the  custom  in  American  museums  to  remove 
the  hat.     Had  this  not  been  so  I  would  have  un- 


The  Art  of  Today  6i 

covered  before  these  two  works.  What  a  great 
man  Winslow  Homer  was,  elemental  and  rugged 
as  the  coast  of  Maine,  content  with  his  own  land, 
a  solitary,  a  patriot,  a  racial  artist,  a  Titan,  who 
wrestled  his  way  up  the  heights,  and  boldly  planted 
there  his  far-flung  national  standard.  Cezanne, 
another  Titan,  a  contemporary  of  Homer's  whom 
he  never  saw,  faltered  through  sheer  stress  of  ar- 
tistry, and  the  agony  after  perfection,  before  he 
could  scale  the  heights.  Winslow  Homer  was  the 
last  of  the  old  hardy,  confident,  regime.  Cezanne 
is  the  pioneer  of  the  peering,  questioning  modern. 
I  was  now  eager  to  seek  out  the  other  Winslow 
Homers  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum — "The  Gulf 
Stream,"  "Shooting  the  Rapids,"  etc.  I  was  has- 
tening through  room  nineteen  when  I  heard  three 
people,  a  youth  and  two  girls,  plainly  art  students, 
talking  loudly  and  with  animation  before  Augustus 
John's  "The  Way  Down  to  the  Sea,"  a  picture 
that  I  had  known  in  London  and  had  writ- 
ten spurts  of  appreciation  about — the  new  Eng- 
lish note,  the  flaunt  of  genius,  the  this-is-I-take- 
me-or-leave-me  oriflamme,  which  Augustus  John 
waves  to  the  world. 

The  three  art  students  were  talking  of  "The  Way 
Down  to  the  Sea,"  with  flashing  eyes  and  protrud- 
ing thumbs.  Their  animation  was  a  recovery  of 
the  old  happy  days  in  Paris  when  art  was  a  living 
thing  to  be  swooped  upon,  discussed  and  enjoyed. 
So  intrigued  was  I  with  these  ebullient  art  students 
that  I  followed  them,  and  it  so  happened  that  we 
all  came  together  in  the  Hudson  River  School  room. 


62  Art  and  I 

The  students  looked  wildly  round,  screamed  "O  lor" 
(or  something  worse),  and  fled. 
I  remained.  "It's  odd,"  I  said,  "but  after  the  ex- 
citements of  John,  Cezanne  and  Winslow  Homer, 
I  feel  that  these  dull  pictures  are  restful." 
I  remained  there  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and 
in  the  company  of  these  modest,  sincere,  untempera- 
mental  men,  my  mind  became  judicial,  my  pulse 
normal,  and  I  attempted  to  compose  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  American  landscape  painting — the  Hudson 
River  lot;  the  French  influence;  the  "delicacy" 
school  of  Twachtman  and  Tryon;  the  vitality  and 
opulence  of  Winslow  Homer;  the  racial  landscapes 
— big  rivers,  sweeping  line,  bold  design,  strong 
colour  of  the  Redfield-Symons-Schofield  group,  who 
are  painting  America  as  she  is,  with  clear  vision  and 
clean  colour.  "I  must  see  some  of  their  pictures,"  I 
said.  So  once  more  I  left  the  Hudson  River  School 
room. 

Endeavouring  to  find  my  way  to  one  of  their  "Win- 
ter" pictures,  suddenly  I  encountered  a  "Winter," 
that  by  Rockwell  Kent.  "My  word,"  I  said,  "that's 
a  fine  picture !  It's  racial,  too.  It's  the  new  note  in 
American  landscape  painting." 
As  this  picture  is  uncatalogued,  I  determined  to 
seek  the  curator  and  glean  from  him  some  informa- 
tion about  Rockwell  Kent.  As  I  walked  in  the 
direction  of  the  curator's  room  I  became  conscious 
of  fatigue.  "There  are  two  courses  open  to  me," 
I  argued,  "to  sit  at  a  table  in  the  lunch  room,  or 
to  sit  upon  a  couch  in  the  Hudson  River  School 
room."     Strange  to  relate,  I  chose  the  latter. 


The  Art  of  Today  6^ 

So,  in  the  midst  of  the  Hudson  River  School  pic- 
tures, I  sat,  very  content,  lulled  and  quiescent,  until 
the  gong  sounded  the  hour  of  closing.  I  did  not 
move.  My  eyes  roamed  over  those  dull  canvases, 
and,  oddly,  they  did  not  depress  me.  "What  does 
it  mean,"  I  asked  myself;  "what  is  the  charm  of 
these  bad  pictures?"  The  answer  was  plain.  These 
men  approached  nature  with  reverence  and  humility. 
They  did  not  try  to  exploit  their  personalities  or 
proclaim  their  cleverness.  Inexpert,  untutored,  un- 
ambitious of  medals  and  honours,  trained  to  respect 
the  brown  tree,  and  to  avoid  the  lively  green,  they 
were  content  to  copy  as  well  as  they  could  what 
they  loved  so  well.  It  was  the  old  way,  the  stage- 
coach method,  not  the  aeroplane  flight. 
An  attendant  appeared  in  the  doorway,  crying, 
"Closing  time."  I  arose,  and  was  surprised  to 
realise  that  I  was  quite  sorry  to  leave  these  dull, 
dim.  dowdy — dear  Hudson  River  landscapes. 


10.    A  "DEFINITE  JOB" 

MICHEL  ANGELO  ROOKER  is  not  the 
only  individual  handicapped  by  his  patro- 
nymic. There  is  Claude  Lorrain  Spot. 
C.  L.  Spot  is  a  modern,  aged  thirty-three,  and  his 
father,  worthy  Hiram  S.  Spot,  earns  a  decent  living 
painting  the  initials  of  the  owners  of  automobiles 
on  their  cars,  and  also  in  producing  dignified  let- 
tering for  advertisements.  He  is  an  adept  at  let- 
tering. Some  of  his  inscriptions  are  so  good  that  they 
have  been  fathered  upon  Eric  Gill  of  London. 
But  Hiram  S.  Spot,  in  the  manner  of  fathers,  was 
not  content  that  his  son  should  be  a  first-rate  and 
much-in-demand  letterer:  he  wished  him  to  be  an 
artist.  So  he  called  him  Claude  Lorrain  Spot. 
Mr.  Hiram  S.  Spot  sent  his  son  to  an  "uptown," 
fine  art  studio,  where  he  was  supposed  to  learn  how 
to  become  a  genius,  and  where  he  was  urged,  by 
means  of  prizes  and  commendations,  to  express  him- 
self to  the  limit  of  his  aesthetic  intelligence.  This 
he  was  able  to  do  as  his  father  gave  him  a  small 
but  sufficient  allowance.  So  the  years  passed. 
Claude  Lorrain  Spot  was  not  altogether  a  failure: 
he  occasionally  sold  a  picture,  the  purchaser  usually 
being  a  relative,  who  was  prepared  to  spend  money 
for  the  honour  of  having  a  genius  in  the  family. 
These  buyers  of  the  Spot  clan  did  not  know  that 
64 


The  Art  of  Today  65 

Claude  Lorrain's  landscapes  were  weak  and  deriva- 
tive, and  as  art  products  not  to  be  compared  with 
his  father's  severe  and  noble  lettering.  But  the 
strange  thing  is  that  Claude  himself  knew. 
He  had  the  artistic  temperament;  he  possessed 
a  subtle  sense  of  beauty,  and  he  was  a  man  of 
character  and  common  sense.  Had  this  not  been 
so  he  could  never  have  gone  on  year  after  year 
producing  those  ineffectual  landscapes,  trying  to  imi- 
tate Corot's  feathery  flick  through  wet  paint, 
Whistler's  subtlety  of  surface,  Monet's  glitter  of 
sunlight,  Cezanne's  sense  of  weight  and  weariness. 
He  went  on  year  after  year  because,  although  a 
man  of  common  sense,  artistically,  he  was  ignorant; 
he  hoped  against  hope  that  by  some  adventitious 
aid,  some  lucky  trick  of  insight,  he  would  one  day 
learn  the  business  of  landscape  painting,  be  elected 
a  member  of  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  and 
sell  his  pictures  for  $5,000  each. 
That  day  never  came.  But  the  awakening  came. 
It  did  not  strike  him  suddenly,  such  awakenings  are 
never  sudden,  although  they  appear  to  be.  The 
casting  away  of  his  brushes  came  through  an  ar- 
ticle called  "On  Teaching  the  Utility  of  Art," 
that  he  read  on  the  art  page  of  a  daily  paper,  con- 
trasting "fine  art"  and  "commercial  or  applied  art" 
much  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  former.  The 
article  eulogised  "commercial  art"  because  it  has 
"a  definite  job  to  do." 

"I  don't  think  the  writer  is  quite  fair,"  Claude  Lor- 
rain  Spot  soliloquised.  "Bad  as  my  landscapes  may 
be,   I  see  daily  a  lot  of  examples  of  commercial 


66  Art  and  I 

art  quite  as  obnoxious.  I  quite  admit  that  some 
of  the  modern  posters,  so  summary,  so  simple,  so 
fresh  in  colour,  have  left  many  of  the  laboured 
studio  landscapes  far  behind.  And  those  large  and 
impressive  'range-finding  landscapes,'  painted  dur- 
ing the  war  opened  to  me  a  new  vista  in  landscape 
decoration. 

"Why  are  these  things  so  good?"  he  asked  himself. 
The  answer  came  pat,  and  with  driving  force. 
Because  the  artists  who  made  them  had  a  "definite 
job  to  do." 

Claude  Lorrain  Spot  felt  that  he  had  reached  a  crisis 
in  his  art  life.  The  time  had  come  for  him  to  make 
a  great  decision.  He  reviewed  his  past.  His  com- 
mon sense  helped  him.  He  knew  ih  his  heart,  and 
his  lips  assented,  that  he  was  not  among  the  ten 
per  cent  of  artists  whose  productions  are  works  of 
art,  who  are  entirely  worthy,  who  are  accepted  of 
paint,  as  certain  poets  are  accepted  of  song;  he  knew 
that  he  belonged  to  the  90  per  cent  who  have  some 
talent,  who  watch  the  market,  who  paint  what  they 
think  is  wanted,  and  who  try  to  discover  short  cuts 
to  fame  and  prosperity. 

"I  am  an  'artist  of  temperament,' "  he  muttered ; 
"I  am  a  cuckoo,  I  have  had  no  real  training  in 
building ;  I  buy  my  colours  and  canvases  at  the  shop 
'round  the  corner,'  and  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea 
whether  my  colours  and  my  vehicles  are  good  or 
bad,  transitory  or  permanent.  I  haven't  learned  the 
trade.  I've  tried  to  grow  the  flower  without  plant- 
ing the  seed,  and,  worst  of  all,  I  haven't  a  definite 
job  to  do.    I  get  my  inspiration,  not  from  nature, 


The  Art  of  Today  67 

although  I  enjoy  a  sunset,  or  reflections  in  still 
water,  as  much  as  anybody;  I  get  my  inspiration 
from  the  works  of  other  fellows.  What  they  have 
seen  I  try  to  see. 

"Now,  having  reached  this  point,"  said  Claude  Lor- 
rain  Spot  to  himself,  "what  of  the  future?  I  must 
amend  my  art  life  immediately." 
He  determined  that,  as  a  beginning,  he  would  call 
himself  C.  L.  Spot,  realising  that  whenever  he 
signed  or  saw  the  honest  ugliness  of  the  signature 
he  would  be  reminded  of  the  palingenesis  of  Claude 
Lorrain  Spot. 

Then  he  visited  his  father.  "Dad,"  he  said,  "you've 
been  very  kind  and  generous  in  the  matter  of  my 
allowance.  I  had  hoped  by  this  time  to  have  been 
able  to  do  without  it,  but  something  has  happened. 
I've  come  to  a  decision.  I  want  you  to  keep  up  my 
allowance  for  two  years,  because  for  that  period  I 
sha'n't  be  earning  money.  I'm  going  to  learn  my 
trade.  I'm  going  to  apprentice  myself  to  the  first 
capable  craftsman-painter  who  will  have  me,  and 
I'm  going  to  swat  through  a  school,  the  hardest  I 
can  find.  I'm  going  to  draw  day  in  and  day  out. 
I'm  going  to  study  design  and  decoration  and  the 
materials  of  my  trade.  I'm  not  going  to  look  at  a 
single  picture,  and  I'm  not  going  to  paint  anything 
for  two  years.     I'm  going  to  learn  my  business  and 

then " 

The  old  craftsman  smiled,     "I've  been  waiting  for 
this  day,"  he  said.   "I'm  proud  of  you.  Go  ahead." 
But  C.  L.  Spot  did  not  tell  his  father  all.    He  did 


68  Art  and  I 

not  tell  him  his  dream.  That  he  nursed  in  his 
heart. 

"What  will  happen,"  he  asked  himself,  "at  the  end 
of  two,  or  ten  years,  when  I  feel  that  I  have 
acquired  an  expert  knowledge  of  my  craft?  Shall 
I  be  any  nearer  to  the  goal?  I  am  not  a  genius. 
I  cannot  impose  my  individuality  upon  the  world, 
because  the  world  doesn't  want  it.  My  talent  is 
quite  ordinary.  It  is  not  necessary  to  the  world. 
When  I  have  become  a  respectable  craftsman  I  shall 
still  be  face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  I  have  not 
'a  definite  job  to  do.'  What  definite  job  can  a 
mediocre  but  sincere  landscape  painter  have  in  this 
muddled  world?" 

Being  pure  in  heart  C.  L.  Spot  saw  his  job  ahead  of 
him  without  any  mental  effort.  "There  are  such 
things,"  he  said,  "as  Dawns,  Sunsets,  Twilights, 
Hills  and  Lakes.  Everybody  is  interested  in  them: 
everybody  loves  them.  Suppose,  when  I  have  mas- 
tered, in  some  measure,  my  craft,  I  were  to  interpret 
Dawns,  Sunsets,  Twilights,  Hills  and  Lakes  to  a 
busy  world.  Take  Dawns!  Suppose  I  were  to 
make  a  long  and  elaborate  study  of  Dawn,  and  work 
up  my  knowledge  into  a  dozen  aspects  of  Dawn — 
small,  decorative  pictures,  simple  in  design,  frank 
in  colour,  giving  the  shy  sequences  of  Dawn  from 
herald  to  climax  in  twelve  progressions. 
"I  would  keep  in  mind  the  room  where  they  would 
hang.  I  would  show  in  the  exhibition  gallery  a 
model  of  this  room  with  the  pictures  properly  spaced 
on  the  walls,  and  the  next  year  I  would  do  Sunsets, 
and  so  on  with  all  the  aspects  of  nature.     That 


The  Art  of  Today  69 

would  be  a  definite  job  and  it  would  attract  and 
help  people." 

Without  more  ado  C.  L.  Spot  began  his  new  life. 
He  went  into  Central  Park  and  proceeded  to  draw, 
with  pre-Raphaelite  accuracy,  a  tree  growing  out  of 
a  rock.  "When  Giotto  drew  a  tree  growing  out  of 
a  rock,  I  supposed  it  was  because  he  didn't  bother 
about  accuracy.  But  here  is  just  such  a  tree  grow- 
ing from  a  rock.  I'll  do  it  as  well  as  ever  I  can, 
and  then  see  just  how  much  worse  I  am  than 
Giotto." 

As  he  worked,  happiness  came  to  him,  for  he  was 
preparing  to  do  a  definite  job. 


11.    A  SOLITARY 

RULES  are  made  for  mediocrity. 
Genius  makes  its  own  rules. 
These  are  dangerous  doctrines,  but  they  require  to 
be  stated  if  the  work  of  Albert  Pinkham  Ryder  is 
to  be  rightly  considered. 

The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth.  Art  has  no 
frontier.  Ryder  was  one  of  the  greatest  of  Ameri- 
can artists  (artists,  not  painters,  mark  you)  ;  but, 
although  born  in  America  of  American  parents, 
although  he  lived  all  his  life  in  America,  he  was  no 
more  an  American  than  Whistler — he  was  univer- 
sal. The  world  was  his  nation — the  world  of 
beauty,  of  thought  and  of  mystery.  He  passed  his 
life  virtually  in  one  disordered  room  in  an  outlying 
suburb,  or  in  a  downtown,  humble  dwelling  in 
New  York.  What  did  it  matter  where  he  lived  so 
long  as  there  was  the  night  sky,  the  awakening 
silence  of  dawn,  the  mystery  and  menace  of  the  sea, 
the  profundity  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  oppor- 
tunity to  labour  and  labour  through  years  on  the 
inward  dreams,  and  the  sombre  visions,  that  he 
wrought  out  in  his  pictures? 

Rules  are  made  for  mediocrity.  The  framers  of 
them  postulate  that  their  pupils  dwell  in  the  average 
zone.  Therefore  they  hold  the  mirror  up  to 
classicism.  "Study  Raphael  and  Ingres,"  they  say. 
This  is  right. 

70 


The  Art  of  Today  71 

No  student  should  ever  copy  Ryder.  His  goal  was 
his  aim,  and  so  long  as  he  reached  his  goal  which 
may  be  described  as  the  * 'magical  quality  of  eter- 
nity," he  was  disdainful  of  such  class-room  ideals 
as  correct  drawing,  values,  realism,  and  imitation 
of  nature  or  the  model.  Constable  revolutionised 
the  art  world  of  his  day  by  showing  in  paint  that 
the  wind  blows,  that  rain  wets,  that  leaves  glitter 
in  the  sunlight.  Ryder  cared  for  none  of  these 
things.  His  landscape  called  "Pastoral  Study" 
swings  back  to  pre-Constable  days.  Yet  it  is  won- 
derful— those  solemn  kine  so  patient  under  the 
solemn  writhing  tree.  Technically,  it  is  far  inferior 
to  a  Constable,  yet  it  is  a  greater  picture,  than,  say, 
the  "Hay-Wain."  The  reason  is  because  the  whole 
is  greater  than  the  part;  that  is,  life,  the  whole,  is 
greater  than  art,  the  part  of  life.  Constable  painted 
the  part,  the  detail,  magnificently;  Ryder  worked 
his  way  into  a  deeply  felt,  long-pondered  expression 
of  his  attitude  toward  the  whole.  He  is  akin  to  the 
psalms  of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  and  to  the  sculp- 
tures of  the  Egyptians. 

He  never  faltered  in  this  quest.  In  the  forty-eight 
works  from  his  brush  shown  in  his  exhibition  there 
was  not  one  that  fails  to  express  his  conversation 
with  eternity,  and  any  one  of  them  could  form  the 
text  for  a  paper  on  the  intention  of  the  art  of 
Ryder.  Consider  his  moonlights  of  mystery  and  sad- 
ness, his  "Temple  of  the  Mind,"  his  vision  of  Jesus 
in  the  "Resurrection"  picture,  a  work  that  seems 
hardly  to  be  done  with  pigments;  and  that  astonish- 
ing expression,  the  heart  of  the  legend,  with  all  of 


72  Jrt  and  I 

the  melody,  rhythm  and  romance  that  "Wagner  in- 
fused into  the  theme  called,  "Siegfried  and  the 
Rhine  Maidens."  Here,  indeed,  is  an  example  of  the 
way  that  genius  breaks  rules,  and  yet  attains  the 
goal.  Imagine  the  indignation  of  a  professor  of  art 
if  a  student  proposed  to  paint  a  picture  in  this  way. 
We  know  precisely  how  it  was  done.  Ryder  himself 
explained  how  his  "Siegfried"  was  produced  to  his 
friend,  Mr.  Elliott  Daingerfield. 
"I  had  been  to  hear  the  opera,  and  went  home  about 
12  o'clock  and  began  this  picture.  I  worked  for  48 
hours  without  sleep  or  food  and  the  picture  was  the 
result." 

Obviously  that  is  not  the  way  to  paint  a  picture, 
but  it  was  Ryder's  way,  and  the  end  justifies  his 
means. 

Instruct  a  painter,  a  good  craftsman  but  without 
vision,  to  paint  a  picture  of  a  boat  drawn  up  in  a 
cove,  and  he  will  produce  a  picture  of  a  boat  drawn 
up  in  a  cove.  It  might  be  an  excellent  representa- 
tion of  the  scene  but  it  would  be  that  and  nothing 
more.  How  did  Ryder  paint  this  scene?  He  was 
an  artist,  a  great  artist;  he  felt  all  a  poet  feels, 
but  he  was  not  a  poet,  although  he  loved  to  write 
verse.  In  temperament  he  was  cousin-german  of 
Blake,  but  there  was  this  difference  between  them. 
Blake  was  as  unique  a  poet  as  he  was  artist.  Per- 
haps he  was  greater  as  a  poet.  Ryder's  verse  was 
good,  but  ordinar)^  It  was  better  than  Turner's, 
which  was  execrable. 

All  the  poetry  in  Ryder's  nature  went  into  his 
painting  of  the  boat  drawn  up  in  the  cove.     The 


The  Art  of  Today  73 

boat  lurking  in  the  shadow  of  the  cliff,  hiding  from 
the  moonlit  cove,  is  the  heart  of  romance.  It  is 
pure  poetry.  Another  of  his  moonlight  pictures, 
"Under  a  Cloud,"  is  pure  allegory.  It  is  as  simple 
a  statement  as  Shakespeare's  "Ripeness  is  all."  It 
does,  in  one  rush  of  inspiration,  what  Watts  was 
trying  all  his  life  to  do,  what  innumerable  men  and 
women,  half  painters,  half  artists,  have  for  ages 
been  trying  to  do  and  usually  failing. 
It  is  tolerably  easy  to  paint  the  part  creditably;  it 
is  intolerably  difficult  to  paint  the  whole  creditably 
unless  one's  nature  flows  deeply,  and  one  lives 
exhaustively  on  the  plaae  expressed  by  William 
Watson: 

When  overarched  by  gorgeous  night 
I  wave  my  trivial  self  away; 
When  all  I  was  to  all  men's  sight 
Shares  the  erasure  of  the  day; 
Then  do  I  cast  my  cumbering  load, 
Then  do  I  gain  a  sense  of  God. 

The  possibility  of  merging  the  part  in  the  whole — 
comes.  It  cannot  be  sought.  "I  did  not  know  I 
had  done  it,"  an  artist  will  say,  when  extolled  for 
certain  big  qualities  in  his  work.  Unconsciously, 
sometimes,  the  artist  relates  the  part  to  the  whole 
and  so  achieves  greatness.  Two  men  paused  in  a 
museum  before  a  bronze  of  a  tiger  on  the  prowl — 
tense,  stealthy,  menacing,  inevitable.  One  of  the 
men  said,  "That's  fine.  I'd  like  to  own  it.  It's  an 
abstract  idea  made  bronze — it's  fate."  The  other 
man  said,  "But,  my  dear  fellov/,  look  at  it  closely. 
You,  a  student  and  an  admirer  of  Barye,  cannot 


74  -^^^  ^^d  I 

possibly  admire  the  modelling  of  this  beast." 
"True,"  said  his  companion,  "it  is  not  particularly 
well  modelled,  but  the  idea  is  great,  and  in  the 
bigness  of  the  idea  the  weakness  of  the  modelling  is 
not  apparent."  He  looked  closer;  he  read  the 
label.  The  sculptor  had  called  it  "Fate." 
Ryder  was  a  Solitary  in  art.  He  belonged  to  that 
little  company  which  includes  Blake,  Matthew 
Maris,  Botticelli  in  later  life,  and,  in  poetry,  Fran- 
cis Thompson.  None  of  them  liked  facts.  All  of 
them  pursued  beauty.  Each  believed  with  Fromen- 
tin  that  the  aim  of  art  is  to  express  the  unseen.  But 
Blake,  having  the  power  of  expression  in  words, 
has  revealed  to  mankind  the  innermost  dreams  of  the 
Solitary  in  a  fuller  way  than  Ryder.  Had  they  been 
able  to  meet,  they  would  have  understood  one  an- 
other. To  each  the  external  manifestations  of  life 
were  of  no  importance,  and  they  were  of  no  impor- 
tance to  Francis  Thompson,  he  who  said  you  cannot 
touch  a  flower  without  troubling  a  star.  Innocence, 
we  are  told,  was  the  secret  of  Blake's  life,  and  surely 
innocence  was  the  secret  of  the  spiritual,  hermit  life 
of  Ryder.  In  those  midnight  walks,  in  his  com- 
munion with  the  dawn,  in  his  effort  after  magical 
quality  in  his  art,  he  sought  to  recapture  the  first 
simplicity  of  mankind.  Ryder  put  his  thought  into 
pictures,  labouring  them  into  a  simplicity  that  a  child 
can  understand.  He  lived  in  the  imagination  as 
Blake  did.  He  would  have  agreed  with  one  of 
Blake's  most  subtle  exponents  who  has  said :  "Blake's 
life  was  spent  in  calling  witness  to  the  paramount 
claims  of  the  imagination  over  every  other  form  of 


The  Art  of   Today  75 

human  activity."     And  Ryder  would  have  echoed 
Blake's  own  brave  words: 


I  rest  not  from  my  great  task; 
To  open  the  eternal  worlds !     To  open  the  immortal  eyes 
Of  man  inwards;  into  the  worlds  of  thought. 


12.     SEARCHERS 

ASCENDED  in  the  elevator.  Then  I  crept 
tiptoe  through  the  vestibule.  Why? 
Because  within  the  open  door  of  his  office  I  saw 
the  Proprietor  of  the  picture  gallery,  seated  at  his 
desk,  fanning  himself.  Why  did  I  avoid  him?  I 
like  him,  I  admire  him,  I  respect  his  opinion  upon 
art,  I  crept  on  tiptoe,  hoping  that  he  would  not 
see  me,  simply  because  when  I  visit  a  picture  exhibi- 
tion I  want  to  make  the  round  of  the  walls  alone. 
A  proprietor  of  a  gallery  being  a  business  man  (he 
may  also  be  an  artist)  necessarily  regards  his  duck- 
lings as  swans,  and  I  do  not  want  his  enthusiasm  to 
intrude  on  my  consciousness.  When  I  was  younger 
I  was  afraid  of  proprietors  of  picture  galleries.  One 
of  them,  there  was  nothing  artistic  about  him,  was 
wont  to  use  a  phrase  about  his  wares  that  was 
effective,  if  limited.  When  I,  through  excessive 
politeness,  remarked  of  a  certain  picture  that  it  was 
good,  he  answered,  "You  bet!"  I  praised  another 
that  was  not  quite  as  good :  again  he  rejoined,  "You 
bet!"  I  eulogised  a  third  that  was  quite  bad. 
"Rather  nice,"  I  said.  He  replied  as  before,  "You 
bet!"  There  was  nothing  more  to  say.  I  thanked 
him  and  withdrew. 

The  Proprietor  of  the  gallery  whose  establishment 

I  was  now  visiting  is  not  that  kind  of  man.     He  is 

76 


The  An  of  Today  77 

a  student  and  a  connoisseur.  Strange  to  say,  when 
I  entered  the  exhibition  room  I  forgot  all  about  him. 
For,  on  one  of  the  walls  was  a  series  of  drawings 
that  fascinated  me,  chiefly  salient  drawings  of  the 
human  figure,  but  there  were  other  kinds  also, 
drawings  of  dryads  and  fauns,  of  abstractions,  of 
winged  horses,  of  fish  acquainting  themselves  with 
coral;  and  there  was  a  set  of  six  lovely  little  land- 
scapes, flushed  with  colour,  illustrating  that  magical 
line  of  Shakespeare's,  "Gilding  pale  streams  with 
heavenly  alchemy."  While  I  looked,  my  delight 
growing,  I  became  aware  that  the  Proprietor  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  admiring  my 
admiration.  I  succumbed.  Waving  my  hands  to- 
ward the  wall  of  drawings,  I  said,  "That's  a  good 
man."  "Yes,"  replied  the  Proprietor,  "he's  a 
Searcher."  He  said  the  word  Searcher  with  con- 
viction and  appreciation,  as  if  he  were  uttering  a 
synthesis  of  all  he  had  thought  and  felt  and  dreamed 
about  the  business  of  making  art. 
That  sentence,  "He's  a  Searcher,"  remained,  and 
still  remains  with  me.  Come  to  think  of  it,  the  art 
that  we  like  is  the  art  of  those  who  search.  So  few 
search:  so  many  (they  cannot  help  it,  their  minds 
have  ceased  to  function)  never  search.  They  merely 
record  the  obvious,  something  we  already  know — a 
girl  in  a  punt,  a  cow  in  a  pasture,  a  child  in  a 
daisy  field,  a  model  in  the  land  of  mythology.  But 
many  artists  have  been,  and  are,  Searchers  in 
private.  How  often  in  running  through  the  "unim- 
portant" studies  and  sketches  thrown  aside  in  a 
studio  have  I  found  the  Searcher  revealed.     I  have 


78  Art  and  I 

dug  from  the  studio  of  an  artist  little  works  that 
tingled  me,  whereas  his  "important"  exhibited  work 
left  me  cold.  How  often  in  looking  through  cab- 
inets of  drawings  by  the  Old  Masters  have  I  found 
small,  disregarded  things  that  have  pleased  and 
cheered  me  much  more  than  their  "important" 
works  catalogued  in  massive  volumes.  There  is  a 
drawing  of  a  sheepfold,  at  sunset,  by  Claude  Lor- 
rain,  in  the  Albertina,  at  Vienna,  that  I  would 
rather  have  than  any  of  his  gallerj^  mythologies. 
It  should  not  be  difficult  to  make  a  list  of  the 
Searchers  in  art.  Botticelli  was  one,  so  was  Rem- 
brandt, so  was  Turner  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life; 
so  was  Blake  all  his  life.  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was  the 
greatest  Searcher  of  all:  indeed  he  was  always 
searching.  He  rarely  troubled  to  find:  the  search 
was  all.  What  a  strange  fate  has  overtaken  his 
"Mona  Lisa."  It  is  not  a  great  picture,  it  is  almost 
a  tricky  picture:  that  inward  smile  is  nothing  more 
than  studio  "chic" :  Leonardo  used  it  again  and 
again.  His  "St.  Anne"  cartoon  in  the  Diploma 
Gallery,  London,  is  a  much  finer  work  of  art  than 
the  "Mona  Lisa."  Why,  then,  is  "Mona  Lisa"  so 
universally  popular?  Walter  Pater  is  the  culprit. 
His  imaginative  and  imaginary  interpretation  of 
"Mona  Lisa"  is  a  finer  work  of  art  than  the  picture. 
His  prose  transcends  "Mona  Lisa."  Similarly 
many  of  Ruskin's  purple  passages  interpreting  good, 
bad  and  indifferent  pictures  are,  as  art,  often  finer 
than  the  works  they  interpret.  This  applies  to 
many  of  Turner's  pictures;  but  not  to  all.  Some- 
times Turner  outsoared  the  Graduate  of  Oxford, 


The  Art  of  Today  79 

and  some  of  Turner's  finest  things  were  disregarded 
by  Ruskin.  They  were  done  when  Turner  was  in 
searching  mood. 

Albert  P.  Ryder  was  a  Searcher  always.  Arthur  B. 
Davies  is  a  Searcher  in  technique  as  well  as  in 
subject.  He  is  a  tireless  Searcher,  and  he  seeks  the 
goal  that  Botticelli  and  Piero  di  Cosimo  sought,  long 
ago,  beauty  touched  with  strangeness.  Kenneth 
Hayes  Miller,  who  painted  "The  Serpent"  and 
"The  Embrace,"  is  a  Searcher.  E.  E.  Cummings, 
who  painted  "Noise"  and  "Sound,"  and  Carl  Kah- 
ler,  who  painted  "Abstraction"  and  "Mechanism," 
at  the  Independent  Show,  are  Searchers.  Oscar 
Bluemner,  the  red  elementalist,  is  a  Searcher,  so  is 
Lily  Converse,  on  trial  rather,  and  Max  Kuehne, 
and  Abraham  Walkowitz,  and  John  Marin  and 
many  other  experimenters."  But  it  is  when  in  later 
years  they  continue  the  search  that  the  thermometer 
of  my  admiration  rises.  John  Richard  Green  said, 
"I  shall  die  learning."  Stopford  Brooke  said,  "I 
shall  die  unlearning."  It  is  no  paradox  to  say  that 
Stopford  Brooke's  use  of  the  word  unlearning  shows 
that  he  was  on  the  Searcher's  path.  Every  artist, 
every  man  of  letters,  in  later  years,  has  more  to 
unlearn  than  to  learn. 

C.  R.  W.  Nevinson  has  been  a  fierce  Unlearner ;  he 
is  now  a  fierce  Searcher.  His  secret  is  quite  simple. 
He  approaches  a  nev/  subject  with  a  virgin  mind 
and  boyish  enthusiasm.  The  subject  dictates  the 
technique — cubist,  academic,  impressionist,  element- 
alist— the  subject  fires  his  imagination,  and  the 
treatment  follows  as  the  day  the  night.    So  we  have 


8o  Art  and  I 

such  amazing  differences  in  vision  and  method  as 
"Mitrailleuse"  and  "Dawn  at  Southwark,"  as 
"Dressing  Station"  and  "Wet  Evening,  Oxford 
St.,"  as  "The  Cursed  Wood"  and  "The  Wave." 
Rockwell  Kent  is  also  a  Searcher.  He  finds  his 
inspiration  in  solitude,  not  in  crowds.  He  spent 
several  months  in  Alaska.  In  that  majestic  but 
storm-ridden  land,  he  made  the  series  of  elemental 
drawings— "Prayer,"  "Ecstasy,"  "The  North 
Wind,"  "Adventure,"  "Sunrise,"  "Victory,"  "Star- 
Lighter."  These  sternly  beautiful  drawings,  some 
of  which  will  form  the  basis  of  pictures,  may  be 
called  studies  in  unlearning  as  well  as  wayside 
expressions  by  a  born  Searcher. 
Finally,  there  comes  to  mind  something,  a  certain 
statement,  so  complete  that  no  pen  or  brush  can 
add  aught  to  its  significance.  It  is  one  of  the 
sayings  of  Jesus  from  the  Oxyrhynchus  "Logia," 
discovered  a  few  years  ago.  It  is  pat  to  this  essay 
on  Searchers:  "Let  not  him  who  seeketh  cease  from 
his  search  until  he  find,  and  when  he  finds  he  shall 
wonder,  wondering  he  shall  reach  the  Kingdom,  and 
when  he  reaches  the  Kingdom  he  shall  find — rest." 


13.  SUCCESS 

WHAT  is  success? 
What  I  saw  looked  like  it. 
Imagine  a  large  room,  or  rather  a  hall,  in  an 
important  exhibition  building  in  New  York. 
Around  the  walls  nearly  a  hundred  pictures  are 
hung,  mostly  on  the  line,  mostly  of  one  size,  the 
companionable  size,  suitable  for  an  ordinary  room. 
They  are  all  landscapes,  sensitive  and  delicate, 
tremulous  with  feeling:  you  might  call  them  Whis- 
pers— whispers  about  the  beauty  of  the  world.  The 
voice  of  the  painter  of  them  is  never  raised;  in 
undertones  he  tells  you  all  his  eyes  have  seen,  all  his 
heart  has  felt.  You  must  be  patient  with  these 
Maeterlinckian  utterances;  you  must  look  at  them 
kindly  and  with  sympathy;  you  must  not  complain 
that  the  painter  of  them  is  not  somebody  else ;  that 
his  vision  is  monotonous ;  that  he  evades  the  tumble 
of  the  world,  its  burr,  its  roughness,  its  virility,  and 
that  all  he  sees  is  soft  and  sweet,  with  a  delicacy  of 
perception  that  Corot  would  have  understood  and 
appreciated.  So  would  Debussy.  Look  carefully  at 
any  of  these  landscapes,  quiet  beauties  will  reveal 
themselves,  and  you  may  smile  happily  at  the 
memory  of  this  Whistler  story.  He  was  show- 
ing one  of  his  nocturnes  to  a  friend,  "Look 
and  you  will  see  the  stars  come  out,"  he  said. 
8i 


82  Art  and  I 

It  is  ten  o'clock  at  night.  The  large  room  where 
these  pictures  are  being  shown  is  crowded  with 
people,  some  seated,  some  standing,  all  extremely 
interested.  They  look  pleased :  they  are  pleased  be- 
cause they  are  assisting  at  a  new  kind  of  Private 
View.  They  arrived  at  eight:  they  looked  at  the 
pictures,  and  at  nine  they  listened  to  a  speech,  or 
rather  a  talk  about  the  pictures  and  the  artist.  The 
Speaker  stood  behind  the  grand  piano  and  talked 
simply,  some  say  pleasantly,  on  the  right  way  of 
looking  at  pictures.  He  begged  his  audience  to 
banish  their  prejudices,  not  to  consider  whether 
they  accepted  this  kind  of  picture,  not  to  decide  at 
once  as  to  whether  they  approved  of  them  or  not, 
but  to  ask  themselves  what  the  artist  had  communi- 
cated to  them,  and  if  he  had  succeeded. 
The  Speaker  suggested  that  every  artist  writes  a 
letter  describing  what  he  has  seen  of  beauty,  wonder, 
and  strangeness  in  the  world,  and  the  business  of 
the  public  is  to  read  his  letters  quietly  and  carefully, 
to  study  their  calligraphy,  to  weigh  their  content, 
and  to  ask  themselves  if  the  pictures  add  to  their 
knowledge  of  the  beauty,  wonder,  and  strangeness 
of  the  world.  Briefly — "Do  they  help  us  to  live?" 
With  such  a  letter-symbol  as  guide  it  is  possible 
to  be  very  catholic,  very  appreciative  of  all  the 
different  schools  of  painting;  for  the  world  is  wide, 
and  the  imaginings  of  man  are  as  various  as  flowers, 
or  clouds,  or  soils:  with  the  idea  of  this  letter  in 
mind,  it  is  possible  to  admire  in  the  same  glance 
Memlinc  and  Matisse,  Gauguin  and  Kramer. 
When  the  Speaker  mentioned  the  name  Kramer,  a 


The  Art  of  Today  83 

tall,  ascetic  looking,  elderly  man,  with  whitened  hair 
and  heightened  colour,  standing  in  the  doorway, 
tried  ineffectually  to  hide  himself  behind  the  cur- 
tains. He  was  Edward  Adam  Kramer,  the  artist, 
in  whose  honour,  this  symposium  was  being  held ;  it 
was  the  first  time,  I  think,  that  he  has  heard  his 
name  mentioned  in  public.  No  wonder  he  felt 
lonely  and  conspicuous:  probably  he  was  immensely 
pleased. 

The  Speaker  proceeded  to  compare  the  pictures  to 
poems.  He  remarked  that  he  had  amused  himself 
by  choosing  poems,  or  snatches  of  poems,  to  suit  the 
pictures.  Then  pointing  to  one  of  them  he  mur- 
mured, 

Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy. 

Later  in  the  evening  a  lady,  a  stranger,  grasped  his 
hand  and  said,  "You  gave  us  a  beautiful  talk,  and 
I  can  guess  who  was  the  author  of  that  lovely  little 
poem  you  quoted."  The  Speaker  smiled  an  interro- 
gation, and  the  lady  said  archly,  "You,  of  course." 
"Wrong,"  replied  the  Speaker,  "it  is  by  Shake- 
speare." 

When  the  Speaker  had  finished,  a  Musician  seated 
himself  at  the  piano  and  made  music  illustrative  of 
the  pictures.  He  was  a  trained  executant  with  feel- 
ing and  power,  and  as  he  played  dreamily,  with  here 
and  there  a  stronger  note,  as  in  the  pictures;  and 
here  and  there  a  wandering  off  into  recesses  where 


84  Art  and  I 

lurked  whispered  harmonies,  and  motifs  interchange- 
able between  music  and  painting,  the  listeners  felt, 
in  the  melodious  silence,  that  the  two  arts  had 
mingled,  and  that  they  were  helping  and  amplifying 
each  other.  And  the  Singer  v/ho  followed  sang 
songs  that  sang  themselves  into  the  pictures.  Can 
you  wonder  that  we  said  one  to  another,  "This  is 
the  right  way  to  present  pictures.  The  new  year  is 
beginning  well." 

Each  guest  was  given  a  pamphlet  containing  a  cata- 
logue of  Kramer's  pictures,  and  two  essays  by  ad- 
mirers, reprinted  from  two  journals.  The  longer 
of  the  two  began  prettily,  thus — "Saint-Beuve  liked 
to  play  with  the  sage  fancy  of  a  temple  to  the 
unarrived,  the  misunderstood,  the  neglected,  a  shrine 
— aux  artistes  qui  n'ont  pas  brille,  aux  amants  qui 
nont  pas  aime,  a  cette  elite  infinie  que  ne  visiterent 
ja?nais  Voccasiorij  le  bonheur  on  la  gloire."  "To  the 
artists  who  have  never  shone,  to  the  lovers  who  have 
never  loved,  to  that  infinite  class  whom  opportunity, 
success,  and  glory  have  never  visited." 
This  quotation  was  followed  by  a  description  of  this 
artist  who  has  had  no  success — and  now  has  it. 
Born  in  the  business  section  of  New  York,  son  of  a 
merchant  tailor,  his  mother  and  father  believed  in 
their  dreamy  artist  son  and  sent  him  to  Munich  and 
Paris  to  study.  Teaching  rolled  off  him,  leaving 
him  high,  dry,  bewildered — and  himself.  As  he  is 
now,  so  was  he  then — a  lyrist,  a  connoisseur  in 
delicacy,  a  one-string  romanticist.  Benjamin  Con- 
stant, a  wise  man,  told  him  bluntly  to  throw  over 
realism,  and  to  be  himself.     Himself  Edward  Adam 


The  Art  of  Today  85 

Kramer  has  been  ever  since.  His  is  a  curious  case. 
He  has  not  avoided  the  w^ork  of  other  artists.  Far 
from  it.  He  told  me  that  for  years  he  has  not 
missed  seeing  an  exhibition ;  but  what  he  has  seen 
has  had  no  effect  upon  his  work.  The  most  it  has 
done  has  been  to  make  him  get  more  music  from  his 
own  string. 

So  I  suppose  an  artist  would  work  if  he  lived  all  his 
life  on  a  Robinson  Crusoe  island.  Mr.  Kramer's 
island  is  an  upper  room  in  the  Bronx,  allotted  to 
him  by  his  kind  brother,  who  is  carrying  on  the 
family  tailoring  business.  In  that  bare  upper  room 
he  has  produced  his  lyrics  in  colour,  without  encour- 
agement from  the  public,  without  encouragement 
from  the  dealers.  For  a  quarter  of  a  century  he  has 
continued  in  his  quiet  way,  not  entirely  without 
success,  for  I  believe  he  sold  a  picture,  perhaps  two, 
■et  the  Armory  Show  (fancy  that),  and  a  few 
friends  who  have  believed  in  him  have  purchased  a 
few  of  his  pictures,  for  what  they  could  afford. 
But  what  he  sold  was  the  mite  of  a  living  wage. 
Yet  he  has  not  been  without  encouragement.  Cer- 
tain artists  and  connoisseurs,  just  a  few,  have  always 
believed  in  him,  and  they  felt  that  this  modest, 
single-minded  artist  should  be  given  his  chance. 
Poets,  in  a  group,  have  expressed  their  admiration 
of  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson.  Artists,  in  a  group, 
have  expressed  their  admiration  of  Edward  Adam 
Kramer,  and  weary  of  dissensions,  the  public,  look- 
ing on  at  this  spectacle  of  confraternity,  is  conscious 
of  confidence,  is  encouraged,  and  is  buying  Robin- 
son's Poems  and  Kramer's  Pictures.     Into  a  world 


86  Art  and  I 

of  discord  behold  harmony,  fellow  feeling,  and  lov- 
ing kindness  have  been  introduced. 
What  is  success? 
Ask  Robinson  Crusoe  of  the  Bronx. 


14.     PROPAGANDA 

SAID  the  Illustrator,  "I'm  tired  of  illustrating. 
I'll  give  it  a  rest  for  a  year.    I'll  paint.    I  have 
views  about  subjects." 

He  glanced  toward  the  Painter  as  if  to  challenge 
him;  then  his  eyes  roamed  over  the  unsold  pictures 
that  were  grouped  about  the  studio.  They  are  very 
attractive — mysterious  figures  doing  nothing  grace- 
fully in  a  shimmery  atmosphere  of  radiant  colour. 
The  Painter  is  modest  about  them,  and  he  seems 
quite  unable  to  distinguish  between  those  that  are 
good  and  those  that  are  less  good. 
The  Illustrator  examined  the  pictures  carefully.  He 
was  complimentary,  of  course;  but  a  question  that 
he  addressed  to  the  Painter  was  revealing;  "Don't 
you  ever  want  to  be  more  definite?"  he  asked. 
The  Painter,  who  thinks  slowly,  replied,  after  a 
pause,  "No,  I  think  not." 

"When  a  man,"  said  the  Illustrator,  "has  been 
making  half  a  dozen  drawings  per  week  for  stories 
and  articles  for  three  years,  he  begins  to  understand 
the  difference  between  life-land  and  dream-land.  I 
want  to  get  into  my  painting  the  life-communicating 
quality  that  you  find  in  Michelangelo,  and  Hogarth, 
in  Hals  and  Rubens.  Don't  smile,  that's  my  aim, 
my  forlorn  hope.  I  want  action,  not  repose;  subject, 
not  sensitiveness:  I  feel  with  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
87 


88  Art  and  I 

son  when  he  said  that  there  is  more  latent  life, 
more  of  the  coiled  spring  in  the  sleeping  dog,  about 
a  recumbent  figure  of  Michelangelo's  than  about  the 
most  excited  Greek  statues.  I  don't  mean  to  paint 
for  myself — everybody's  doing  that.  I  want  to 
interest  the  minds  of  the  people,  not  to  titillate  their 
emotions.  Do  you  know,  I  think  that  I  divide  artists 
into  two  classes — those  who  paint  for  themselves 
and  those  who  paint  for  the  world." 
"It  often  happens,"  said  the  Painter,  "that'  an  artist 
or  a  writer  best  helps  the  world  by  being  himself. 
People  are  more  bored  by  sermons  than  by  self- 
expression." 

"That  may  be  so,"  said  the  Illustrator;  "G.  F. 
Watts  used  to  bore  me  with  his  sermons  in  paint, 
but  when  I  was  last  in  London  I  couldn't  help  feel- 
ing what  a  tremendous  gift  to  the  world  are  those 
pictures  by  him  at  the  Tate  Gallery.  They  seem  so 
eternal,  compared  with  the  temporary  expressions 
of  art  for  art's  sake.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  'For  He 
Had  Great  Possessions,'  'Hope,'  'The  Minotaur,' 
and  'Sic  Transit.'  He  painted  for  the  world.  Rae- 
maekers  is  a  world  artist,  too.  How  trivial  the 
work  of  other  war  illustrators  seems  compared  to 
what  he  did.  Do  3'ou  remember  his  water  colour 
called  'The  Adoration  of  the  Magi' — the  Kaiser, 
the  Austrian  Emperor,  and  the  Sultan  offering 
weapons  of  destruction  to  the  Child?  That  was 
terrible,  wonderful — the  most  awful  lay  sermon  of 
the  war.  I  begged  Raemaekers  to  paint  it,  to  convert 
it  into  a  large  oil  picture.  And  I  wish  he  would 
paint  a  companion  picture,  'The  Child  Triumphant.' 


The  Art  of  Today  89 

I'm  keen  now  about  Sermons  in  Paint,  I'm  all  for 

art  as  propaganda." 

"You've  changed  a  good  deal  since  you  went  to 
France." 

"Yes,  and  more  still  since  I  returned  home.  I've 
seen  things;  I've  seen  everything,  and  the  contrast 
between  Over  There,  and  3,000  miles  away,  Here, 
fires  me  to  paint  all  manner  of  impossibilities;  but 
each  picture  will  say  the  same  thing — the  words, 
Never  Again.  Certain  people  in  this  country,  who 
haven't  the  least  conception  of  what  war  really  is, 
are  now  talking  glibly  about  the  next  war.  That 
makes  me  see  red,  for  I  know  what  war  is,  and  I 
want  to  shock  people  into  such  a  knowledge  of 
its  horrors  that  every  man,  woman,  and  child  will 
cry,  'Never  Again.'  I've  got  books  of  sketches,  and 
yet  I  haven't  begun  one  picture.  The  scheme  is  so 
vast,  the  pictures  must  be  co-ordinated,  they  must 
shout  their  message.  Yes,  I'm  a  propagandist,  and 
my  message  to  the  world  is  proclaiming  the  colossal 
folly  and  wickedness  of  war.  The  very  word  ought 
to  be  banished  from  the  language.  I  should  like 
every  one  of  my  pictures  to  carry  the  dire  message 
of  that  epochal  work  by  Franz  Stiick  which  he 
called  'War.'  " 

"I'm  glad  that  you've  given  up  illustrating,"  said 
the  Painter. 
"Why?" 

"Oh,  merely  because  I  think  that  it  has  become 
contemptible.  An  illustration  should  amplify  the 
text,  should  tell  us  something  about  the  characters 
and  episodes  that  the  author  has  not  made  plain. 


90  Art  and  I 

Most  modern  illustrations  merely  repeat  what  the 
author  has  said.  When  we  are  told  in  the  text  that 
John  takes  Jane's  hand  under  the  table,  and  Papa, 
noticing  that  something  untoward  has  happened, 
starts,  there  is  nothing  more  to  say.  The  episode 
is  fully  stated.  Yet  this  is  just  the  kind  of  thing 
that  the  illustrator  selects.  Moreover,  the  illustra- 
tions in  the  weekly  press  are  so  badly  printed  that 
they  become  an  offence.  I  try  not  to  look  at  them. 
The  only  kind  of  illustrations  that  interest  me  are 
those  that  illuminate  the  text,  such  as  Du  Maurier's 
own  drawings  for  'Trilby'  and  Keene's  illustrations 
to  'Alice  in  Wonderland.'  If  I  were  an  art  editor 
I  would  make  all  the  illustrations  full  pages.  There 
should  be  a  relation  between  them  and  the  text, 
but  each  page  should  be  an  independent  decorative 
statement,  something  that  the  reader  can  look  at 
with  pleasure  even  if  he  does  not  read  a  word  of 
the  letter  press.  As  for  the  comic  illustrations 
that  crowd  most  newspapers,  they  appal  me.  I 
admire  true  caricature  as  much  as  anybody,  but 
I  resent,  oh,  how  I  resent  the  gross  travesties 
of  men  and  women  that  do  duty  in  the  comic  pages 
of  our  journals.  I  can  hardly  believe  that  any 
draftsman  can  go  on  day  by  day  repeating  the 
monotony  of  their  vulgarity.  Alas,  illustration  is 
under  a  cloud !  Editors,  paper  makers  and  printers 
conspire  to  make  the  fog  thicker.  It  would  take 
years  to  educate  the  public  into  even  a  glimmering 
of  what  the  art  of  illustration  should  be.  Yet  the 
French  can  do  it — there's  Forain  and  Steinlen.    But 


The  Art  of  Today  91 

those  are  the  last  of  the  old  guard.  The  future 
looks  hopeless." 

"Don't  despair,"  said  the  Illustrator.  "It's  always 
darkest  before  dawn;  but  I'm  glad  that  I'm  free 
from  the  illustrating  toil  for  a  twelvemonth.  But 
now  that  I  am  free  I  begin  to  long  for  service  again, 
for-sending-in-day  dates  and  the  paternal  eye  of  the 
editor.  Don't  you  fellows  who  paint  your  dreams 
miss  the  controlling  and  compelling  force  that  the 
Italians  had  in  the  church,  Velasquez  in  his  king, 
Watts  in  humanity  and  Raemaekers  in  his  righteous 
anger?  You  have  nobody  over  you  but  your  own 
whims.  My  controlling  and  compelling  force  in 
these  war  pictures  I'm  going  to  paint  is  the  'Never 
Again'  idea.  They're  going  to  be  blatant  propa- 
ganda. Through  this  year  of  strenuous  work  I  cast 
from  me  absolutely  all  traffic  with  beauty  and  art 
for  art's  sake.  I'm  going  to  be  a  fierce  and  relentless 
propagandist." 

Just  then  the  Painter's  pretty  sister,   a  charming 
apparition,   entered   the  studio  with  an  armful  of 
those  orange-red  and  white  wild  flowers  called  But- 
terfly weed  and  Queen's  Lace.     She  arranged  them 
in  a  posy,  the  nodding  gleams  of  the  orange-red  and 
white,  smiling  above  her  head. 
"Stay  so  for  a  minute,  please,  please,"  shouted  the 
Illustrator,  and  began  to  make  an  excited  sketch. 
The  Painter  smiled.     "Propaganda,"  he  murmured, 
"but  the  propaganda  of  beauty." 
Watching,  he  smiled  again. 


IS.     DOLLS  AND  A  MAN 

IT  might  seem  that  there  is  little  alliance  between 
Dolls  and  John  D.  Rockefeller:  between  Leon 
Bakst  and  Paul  Manship:  between  the  Russian 
Ballet  and  a  severe,  sensitive  and  ruthless  bust.  I 
am  prepared  to  admit  that  the  only  alliance  may  be 
in  my  consciousness,  and  that  it  lodged  there  through 
the  chances  of  modern  life,  through  the  adventitious 
importance  of  a  visit  I  made  one  afternoon  to  a 
gallery  to  see  the  Manship  bust  of  Rockefeller,  and 
to  another  gallery  to  see  the  Bakst  dolls. 
To  be  precise  I  saw  the  Manship  bust  first.  It 
spoke  of  silence,  mystery,  and  a  pathetic  questioning. 
Then  I  went  to  the  Bakst  water  colours.  They 
chattered  of  colours,  invention,  skill,  irony,  and  the 
variegated  and  noisy  life  of  the  moment.  They 
enlivened,  they  cheered,  as  vital  art,  done  with  brev- 
ity and  distinction,  always  does;  and  yet  while  I 
was  being  titillated  by  Bakst  I  could  not  get  the 
Manship  sobriety  out  of  my  mind.  It  floated  there: 
so  when  I  had  finished  with  the  Dolls  I  returned  to 
the  Bust,  to  find  that  I  was  even  more  impressed 
than  when  I  had  first  seen  it  earlier  in  the  afternoon. 
Since  then  there  has  passed  through  my  consciousness 
a  moving  picture  of  those  lively  Dolls  pirouetting 
and  posturing  around  that  silent,  indifferent,  enig- 
matic Bust.  Of  such  toys  we  make  our  joys. 
92 


The  Art  of  Today  93 

Paul  Manship  is  a  sculptor  whose  work,  in  my 
journeyings  about  America,  has  always  attracted  and 
held  me — his  "Dancer  and  Gazelles,"  his  "Play- 
fulness," his  "Three  Weeks  Old  Baby"  at  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  so  modern  yet  so  suggestive 
of  ancient  China  (merely  the  unity  of  art),  and  I 
have  said  to  myself — "Here  is  a  man  to  write  about 
some  day.  He  is  a  child  of  the  ages ;  he  has  absorbed 
the  best  of  Egypt,  archaic  Greece,  Donatello,  those 
Masters  of  the  Renaissance  whose  very  names  are 
like  flowers,  and  the  Frenchmen  from  Houdon  to 
Rodin,  and  yet  he  has  remained  firmly  himself." 
Manship's  note  is  severe  charm:  he  has  neither 
rhetoric  nor  sentiment:  his  austere  groups  which 
have  the  rhythmic  playfulness  of  gods  rather  than 
of  men,  also  possess  the  rare  and  essential  quality  of 
seeming  as  if  they  apply  not  to  a  year,  but  to  a 
century. 

It  is  not  possible  to  describe  the  effect  on  me  of 
Manship's  bust  of  John  D.  Rockefeller  enthroned 
in  that  qdiet  room,  against  a  background  of  old 
tapestry,  with  nothing  else  there  but  two  or  three 
old  pictures.  But  I  will  say  this,  so  as  to  present 
my  opinion  of  this  work  of  art  quite  clearly.  I 
believe  that,  at  any  rate  since  Augustus  Saint 
Gaudens,  and  perhaps  he  never  did  the  equal  of  this, 
there  has  been  no  work  in  American  sculpture  so 
remarkable.  The  sculptor  has  done  something  that 
one  would  have  thought  was  impossible:  he  has 
carved  from  marble  a  realistic  representation  of  an 
elderly  man  and  made  of  it  a  work  of  art.  There 
can   be   no    doubt   about   that.     Technically    it   is 


94  Art  and  I 

exquisitely  wrought — the  hair,  the  sagging  neck,  the 
clean-cut  alert  head,  the  long-drawn-down  upper 
lip  are  carved  and  modelled  by  a  master.  And  he 
has  used  with  discretion — colour,  in  a  yellowy 
stain  to  the  marble,  and  soft  yet  salient  tints  in  the 
eyes.  But  this  is  not  all.  He  has  given  to  this  bust 
the  "something  more"  that  words  cannot  describe. 
You  remember  that  passage  wherein  Walter  Pater 
allows  himself  to  wonder  how  Leonardo  da  Vinci 
experienced  the  last  curiosity.  That  is  what  I  see 
in  the  questioning  eyes,  and  in  the  raised  brows, 
crinkling  an  inquiry:  in  all  the  arrested  moment  in 
the  life  of  this  masterful  man  here  presented.  Of 
what  is  he  thinking?  This  is  how  I  read  his  look: 
this  is  what  he  seems  to  be  saying — "I  have  handled 
this  world  with  consistent  skill.  I  have  met  com- 
prehension with  greater  comprehension,  and  cunning 
with  greater  cunning;  and  now  I  look  into  the 
future,  calm,  watchful,  waiting,  unafraid,  without 
fear  and  without  any  amazement." 
Then  the  dolls.  There  are  30  of  them  smirking 
gaily  and  ironically  from  the  walls,  all  kinds,  all 
conditions,  each  superbly  drawn  and  beautifully 
coloured,  each  with  its  own  character  and  person- 
ality, each  alive  and  alert  as  if  challenging  man  to 
deny  that  they  are  less  real  than  the  toys  which  he 
calls  men  and  women.  Bakst  designed  these  dolls 
for  Goldoni's  1850  Neapolitan  comedy  with  music 
by  Rossini  called  "La  Boutique  Fantasque"  or  "The 
Doll  Shop." 

As  all  the  world  knows,  Leon  Bakst,  born  at  Petro- 
grad,  designer,  decorator,  painter,  stands  out  as  pro- 


The  Art  of   Today  95 

tagonist  in  the  modern  movement  of  stage  scenery 
and  decoration ;  as  the  originator  of  the  "Bakst 
colour  schemes" ;  and  as  one  of  the  forces,  behind  the 
curtain,  of  the  Russian  Ballet.  I  am  not  a  Russian 
Ballet  enthusiast.  I  have  seen  it  (to  me  one  is  like 
another)  in  Paris,  in  London,  and  in  New  York, 
and  always  with  a  similar  experience.  In  the  first 
act  delight  and  wonder  at  the  wealth  of  colour  and 
design,  the  swift  changes  and  the  lovely  phantas- 
magorias ;  then  gradually  a  lessening  of  interest  be- 
cause there  was  no  mental  stimulus  or  interest.  In 
the  second  act,  semi-somnolence,  relieved  by  flashes 
of  interest  in  new  combinations  of  colour  or  group- 
ing: in  the  third  act  complete  somnolence.  But  in 
the  Bakst  designs,  in  his  illustrations  for  "The  Doll 
Shop,"  "The  Good  Humoured  Ladies,"  "Sadko," 
"The  Sleeping  Beauty";  in  his  decorations  for 
"L'apres-midi  d'un  faune,"  "Daphnis  and  Chloe," 
and  "Pisanella,"  I  found  no  tedium,  because  he  is  a 
great  draftsman,  colourist  and  designer,  with  an 
invention  that  never  flags  and  is  ever  fresh. 
Bakst  can  do  anything  in  the  path  he  has  marked 
out,  but  I  think  he  is  happiest  with  his  dolls.  The 
eternal  child  in  him  plays  with  these  creations  of  a 
child  world,  these  actualities  on  paper,  as  Lewis 
Carroll  played  with  them  in  print.  "A  Rich  Doll 
with  a  Broom,"  "A  Doll  of  the  People,"  "An  Amer- 
ican Girl  Doll,"  "A  Russian  Boy  Doll"  pattered 
along  by  my  side  as  I  made  my  way  back  to  the 
room  where  Paul  Manship's  bust  of  John  D.  Rocke- 
feller reposes. 
All  the  world  seemed  dolls  and  toys — even  this,  even 


g6  ,  Art  and  I 

this  wonderful  bust,  and  lingering  there  in  the  quiet- 
ness I  thought  of  that  poem  by  Coventry  Patmore 
called  "The  Toys" — how  he  had  dismissed  his  little 
son  for  some  fault  "with  hard  words  and  unkissed" ; 
and  how  later,  regretful  and  repentant,  he  visited 
his  bed — 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  ray  own; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-veined  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  wMth  blue  bells. 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  careful 

art. 
To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

Toys — dolls — and  a  man! 


16.    WATER  COLOUR 

WON'T  you  give  us  a  talk  on  water  colour?" 
said  the  Director.  "You  seem  to  have  an 
affection  for  that  branch  of  art." 
I  smiled.  "Affection  is  halfway  to  knowledge,"  I 
said.  "Yes,  I  like  your  word  'talk.'  It's  less  fright- 
ening than  'lecture';  a  talk  can  amble  down  bypaths; 
a  lecture  must  keep  to  the  highroad." 
As  I  walked  home  I  reviewed  my  knowledge  of  the 
subject,  saying  to  myself — "I'll  arrange  it  all  pat 
in  my  mind,  and  tonight  I'll  inscribe  the  heads  of 
my  talk  on  a  post  card." 

Thus  I  reflected — Water  colour,  like  angling,  is  a 
gentle  art.  The  English  love  it,  and  they  have  been 
most  faithful  to  the  gentle  art  of  water  colour. 
Nowhere  has  it  been  so  highly  esteemed  as  in  Eng- 
land. For  more  than  a  century  the  exhibitions  of 
the  Old  Water  Colour  Society  have  been  the  bian- 
nual attraction  to  a  number  of  quiet,  cultured 
people,  many  of  whom  belong  to  that  class  which 
has  been  described  as  "the  rectory  public."  They 
have  been  brought  up  on  English  water  colours: 
they  adore  these  quiet  transcripts  of  the  countryside : 
they  call  them  water  colour  drawings,  and  they 
have  an  aversion,  amounting  sometimes  to  anger,  for 
the  modern  form  of  the  art  known  as  water  colour 
painting.  Over  the  tea  table  they  have  been  known 
97 


98  Art  and  I 

to  sigh,  to  shake  their  well-attired  and  wise  heads, 
and  to  say  that  the  modern  dashing  belligerent  on- 
rush of  colour  and  contrast,  known  as  water  colour 
painting,  is  an  enemy  of  the  suave  and  pacific  art  of 
water  colour  drawing.  They  lament  that  the  art  of 
water  colour  drawing,  born  and  bred  in  England, 
traditionally  English,  has  been  seized  upon  by  bril- 
liant buccaneers  and  made  universal. 
Now,  you  perceive  that  I  had  settled  upon  the  two 
chief  heads  of  my  post-card  synopsis — (I)  Water 
Colour  Drawing,  (II)  Water  Colour  Painting,  one 
beginning  in  the  Eighteenth  Century  with  Paul 
Sandby,  Alexander  and  John  Cozens,  etc.,  the  other 
flashed  upon  the  world  by  Turner  in  his  latter  years, 
and  in  modem  times  by  Winslow  Homer,  Brabazon, 
Sargent,  Dodge  Macknight  and  others. 
Although  Englishmen  have  called  water  colour 
drawing  the  traditional  British  art,  it  was,  of 
course,  practised  long  ago.  Almost  all  the  great 
masters — Claude,  Rembrandt,  Diirer,  Rubens,  etc. 
— have  used  water  colour  for  their  sketches,  have 
commandeered  body  colour,  and  employed  ingenious 
methods  and  tricks — transparent  washes,  one  over* 
the  other,  the  sponge,  the  scratch,  the  bath,  any- 
thing so  long  as  the  effect  was  obtained,  practices 
in  which  Turner  was  supreme.  Water  colour  opens 
an  avenue  of  freedom.  Could  the  water  colours  of 
the  great  masters  be  exposed  in  a  vast  hall,  the 
world  would  be  astonished  at  the  intimacy  and 
freshness  of  the  work  done  by  these  important  per- 
sonages when  nobody  was  looking. 
It  was  England  that  gave  to  the  water  colour  draw- 


The  Art  of  Today  99 

ing  its  tender  beauty,  its  unsophisticated  familiarity, 
and  fostered  it  into  a  national  art.  "Girtin  opened 
the  gates  and  Turner  entered  in."  But  it  began  in 
England  before  Girtin's  time;  it  began  with  the 
topographical  drawing.  Ill-paid  drawing  masters 
were  the  pioneers.  In  the  early  Eighteenth  Century 
it  became  the  fashion  for  the  landed  gentry  to  have 
pictures  made  of  their  country  estates;  in  many 
cases  a  shaggy,  beauty-loving  drawing  master  was 
an  appendage  of  the  demesne  like  a  farm  bailiff  or  a 
master  of  the  kennel. 

When  the  artist  had  made  a  careful  drawing  of  the 
castle  or  the  dower-house,  what  more  natural  than 
that  he  should  indicate  the  sky  with  a  wash  of  blue, 
and  the  foreground  with  a  wash  of  buff.  Finding 
how  attractive  the  drawing  became  with  these 
flushes  of  colour,  gradually  he  began  to  use  nature, 
instead  of  a  gentleman's  seat,  as  his  main  motive, 
and  he  soon  realised  what  an  important  part  the 
paper  itself  could  be  made  to  play.  A  single  sweep 
of  the  brush,  a  blot,  a  splash,  here  and  there,  and  a 
rough  blue  paper  would  assume  the  look  of  a  sea, 
or  a  feathery  sky.  So  the  art  of  water  colour  draw- 
ing began.  It  advanced  under  the  skill  of  men  of 
talent,  like  Paul  Sandby;  and  under  the  inspiration 
of  men  of  genius,  like  Alexander  and  John  Cozens, 
de  Wint,  Cotman;  on,  on,  till  Girtin  threw  open 
the  gates  and  Turner  entered  in. 
Turner  united  in  himself  the  two  methods — the 
water  colour  drawing  and  the  water  colour  painting 
— and  he  did  them  better  than  anybody  else  because 
he  was   a  man   of   genius.     Turner's   later  water 


100  Art  and  I 

colour  paintings  have  never  been  excelled;  he 
showed  the  way,  and  all  that  has  been  done  since 
may  be  said  to  date  from  him.  With  one  exception 
— ^Winslow  Homer.  His  oils  have  the  rare  qual- 
ity of  independence;  he  derives  from  nobody.  For 
vigour,  force,  and  a  fierce  joy  in  the  pomp  and 
power  of  nature  his  water  colours  stand  alone. 
These  are  water  colour  paintings.  The  tempera- 
ment of  Winslow  Homer  had  nothing  in  common 
with  the  delicate  and  intimate  art  of  English  water 
colour  drawing.  That  is  like  a  whisper  by  Maeter- 
linck. Winslow  Homer's  water  colours  are  akin 
to  a  heroic  passage  in  Shakespeare. 
John  S.  Sargent's  water  colours  also  stand  alone. 
They  are  the  recreations  of  a  portrait  painter,  the 
expression  of  his  genius  in  holiday  mood — the  things 
he  wanted  to  do,  and  loved  to  do.  And  chiefly  in 
private  collections,  gathered  in  by  collectors  who 
"know,"  struggled  for,  are  the  water  colour  paint- 
ings by  Dodge  Macknight,  who  will  one  day  be 
universally  recognised  as  a  great  artist. 
And  in  far-off  England,  in  public  galleries,  and  in 
the  homes  of  connoisseurs  who  "know,"  may  be  seen 
the  water  colour  paintings  of  Hercules  Brabazon 
Brabazon.  He  was  an  old  man  when  his  friend 
John  S.  Sargent  persuaded  him  to  hold  an  exhibi- 
tion. He  demurred;  he  had  never  exhibited  a  pic- 
ture throughout  his  long  life;  he  was  persuaded,  the 
exhibition  was  held,  and  he  at  once  stepped  into  the 
proud  position  of  the  first  of  English  water  colour 
painters.  He  held  it  to  the  end.  No  one  challenged 
it.    A  Brabazon  water  colour  stood  out  as  the  sym- 


The  Art  of  Today  loi 

bol    of    something    extraordinarily    fresh,    vibrant, 
bright  and  subtle. 

He  stands  as  the  type  of  the  perfectly  happy  artist. 
A  country  gentleman,  owner  of  a  large  estate  in 
Sussex,  he  handed  over  the  reins  of  his  lands  to  his 
nephew,  and  gave  himself  up  with  glee  to  his  two 
passions — water  colour  painting  and  music.  Ha 
painted  for  love.  He  never  sold  a  picture,  he  never 
had  a  studio,  he  never  had  an  easel;  he  held  his 
painting  board  on  his  knee  and  rushed  off  his  en- 
thusiasm in  gusts,  finding  a  fresh  gust  with  the  new 
nature  of  each  new  day.  Fame  surprised  him, 
bothered  him  a  little;  then  he  forgot  all  about  it  in 
the  delight  of  a  new  allure  of  nature. 
When  I  reached  home  I  wrote  on  a  post  card: 

WATER   COLOUR 

An  intimate  art. 

Has  alwaj's  been  practised. 

England  made  it  her  own. 

Began  with  the  water  colour  drawing. 

Cozens,    de   Wint,    Cotman   were    masters   of   the 

gentle  art. 

Turner,   a   pioneer  of   the  vigorous   water   colour 

painting. 

Winslow  Homer,  Sargent,  Dodge  Macknight,  Bra- 

bazon. 

Peroration:     Plead    for    water    colour — songs    on 

paper:  lyrics,  summary  and  swift. 


17.    ARCHITECTURE 

WHEN  we  parted  at  the  door  of  the  club,  after 
a  long  and  interesting  talk  about  the  right 
way  and  the  wrong  way  of  buildings  and  decoration, 
the  Architect  said:  "Will  you  lunch  with  me  on 
Sunday?  My  house  may  amuse  you." 
It  did,  but  I  am  glad  it  is  his  house,  not  mine.  I 
need  in  a  dwelling-place  air,  light  and  space.  As  a 
residence,  this  dim,  mediaeval  building  would  depress 
me  exceedingly;  but  belonging  to  another  fellow,  I 
am  grateful  to  the  architect  for  this  re-creation  of  a 
past  day.  It  is  a  show  place  to  which  I  shall  resort 
as  often  as  I  am  asked. 

Imagine  a  typical  New  York  brown  stone  house 
recased  in  the  Gothic  manner.  As  for  the  inside,  it 
has  been  torn  out;  two  floors  have  been  converted 
into  one,  producing  a  lofty,  baronial  hall  with  high, 
panelled  walls,  containing  tapestry,  Gothic  furni- 
ture, primitive  pictures  chosen  for  their  charm,  sin- 
cerity and  decorative  frames;  and  a  hearth,  with 
andirons,  that  would  have  seemed  quite  homey  to 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion.  High  up  at  one  end  of  this 
hall  is  a  gallery;  at  the  rear  is  the  dining  room, 
screened  from  the  street  by  Fourteenth  Century 
stained  glass,  and  above  are  the  bedrooms,  panelled 
like  the  rest  of  the  house,  dim,  decorated  with  crests, 
and   adorned  with  beautiful   chairs  that  are  quite 


The  Art  of  Today  103 

uncomfortable  when  sat  upon.  The  baby's  cradle 
(with  a  very  nice  Twentieth  Century  baby)  might 
have  slipped  out  of  Ghirlandaio's  fresco  of  the 
"Birth  of  John  the  Baptist,"  at  Florence. 
The  table  where  we  had  luncheon  had  done  service 
centuries  ago  in  the  refectory  of  a  monastery;  but 
the  turkey  was  the  best  that  Rhode  Island  could 
produce.  Halfway  through  the  dinner,  I  laid  down 
my  knife  and  fork,  and  said,  "I  can  think  of  nothing 
but  this  house.  You  Americans  are  a  strange  race ! 
You  raise  public  buildings  that  are  the  wonder  of 
the  modern  world ;  you  invent  machines  that  are 
almost  human ;  you  scatter  labor-saving  devices 
throughout  the  continent;  you  are  the  apostles  of 
efficiency  and  utility;  your  country  is  in  its  spring- 
time; and  yet,  more  than  any  other  nation,  you 
hanker  for  the  ripe,  the  overripe  fruits  of  a  past 
age.  You  pretend  to  be  Twentieth  Century  pio- 
neers, but  at  heart  you  are  wedded  to  conformity 
and  compromise.  Look  at  this  house!" 
"I  rather  like  it,"  said  the  Architect.  "But  if  you 
want  modernity  there  is  the  Flat  Iron  Building." 
"Ah,  there  you  had  to  meet  a  new  condition,  and 
you  met  it  with  genius,  as  you  have  met  the  transit 
problem  in  New  York.  But  unless  you  are  forced 
into  a  new  path,  you  glide  back  into  the  past.  I 
quite  admit  that  modern  architecture  in  America  is 
the  finest  in  the  world.  Wherever  I  go  I  am  elated 
by  your  state  houses  and  public  buildings.  New 
York  is  crowded  with  superb  banks  and  trust  com- 
pany buildings,  and  in  my  journeyings  I  have  again 
and   again   come   across  public   edifices   in    remote 


I04  Art  and  I 

towns  so  fine  that  I  have  stopped  the  motor  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  looking  at  them.    They  are  a  joy 

to  the  eye,  but " 

"McKim,  Mead  &  White,"  interposed  the  Archi- 
tect. 

"Yes.  If  ever  any  firm  of  architects  deserve  the 
appellation  of  genius,  it  is  McKim,  Mead  &  White. 
Their  influence  throughout  America  has  been  colos- 
sal, universal  and  always  in  the  direction  of  fine 

work  and  purity  of  style,  but " 

"There  is  always  a  but,"  said  the  Architect.  "I 
suppose  you  accuse  them  of  conformity  and  com- 
promise." 

"Undoubtedly,  but  it  is  conformity  of  the  very 
finest  kind.  They  are  rooted  and  grounded  in  the 
architecture  of  the  classic  age  of  Greece;  but,  like 
Saint  Gaudens  in  sculpture,  they  have  given  to 
classicism  a  raiment  of  morning  freshness.  The  chief 
fault  I  have  to  find  with  almost  all  their  buildings 
is  that  the  light  of  day  is  allowed  only  to  filter 
faintly  into  their  interiors.  The  exteriors  are 
always  beautiful." 

"So  you  divide  up  modem  American  architecture 
into  the  McKim  variety,  the  Skyscraper  variety,  and 
the  Eclectic  variety,  exampled  by — my  house." 
I    assented   half-heartedly   and   with   a   tremor   of 
apology. 

To   relieve  my  anxiety  the  Architect  addressed  a 
pointed  question  to  me.    "Which  do  you  think  are 
the  finest  modern  buildings  in  America?" 
This  is  the  kind  of  question  I  delight  in  answering. 
"The  three  finest  buildings  in  Washington,  in  my 


The  Art  of  Today  105 

opinion,  are  the  new  Lincoln  Memorial,  classical 
and  exquisite;  the  Pan-American  Building,  noble 
and  symmetrical;  and  the  Masonic  Temple,  the 
completest  expression  of  symbolism  in  architecture 
that  I  have  ever  seen. 

"Of  course,"  I  continued,  "you  know  which  is  the 
finest  building  in  New  York.  It  is  entirely  modem : 
it  arose  from  the  cause  that  all  great  buildings 
have  arisen  from;  it  arose  from  a  definite  demand; 
it  met  the  case ;  it  was  built  not  to  rival  past  beauty, 
but  to  meet  a  want  of  the  present  day,  and,  by  a 
miracle,  or  by  sheer  knowledge  and  artistic  'flair,'  it 
is  entirely  beautiful.  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  refer 
to  Cass  Gilbert's  Woolworth  Building." 
The  Architect  opened  the  stained  glass  window  and 
inhaled  a  deep  breath  of  fresh  air. 
"Believe  me,  I  am  quite  serious,"  I  said.  "The 
Woolworth  Building  is  the  finest  product  of  Amer- 
ican architecture.  It  is  an  absolute  expression  of 
the  day.  Moreover,  it  is  a  utility  building  which 
has  been  wrought  into  beauty.  It  has  been  called, 
I  believe,  the  'Cathedral  of  Commerce.' 
"Now,  turn  your  mind  for  a  moment  to  the  new 
cathedral  that  is  rising,  in  pomp  and  splendour,  on 
Morningside  Heights.  What  is  it?  Like  your 
house,  it  is  a  mere  conglomeration  of  glorious  details 
of  the  past  welded  together  at  great  cost,  magnifi- 
cence piled  upon  magnificence.  No  mind  works 
through  it,  no  simple  intelligence  directs  it,  and  it 
does  not  represent  in  the  slightest  degree  the  efifort 
and  aspiration  of  New  York  in  the  first  quarter  of 
the  Twentieth  Century.    The  Woolworth  Building 


io6  Art  and  I 

dees.  Do  you  know  what  I  should  do  if  I  were  an 
autocrat?" 

The  Architect  drummed  on  his  monastery  refectory 
table,  and  vaguely  shook  his  head. 
"I  should  scrap  the  new  cathedral  on  Momingside 
Heights  as  a  mere  echo  of  the  past,  and  I  should 
erect  in  its  place  a  Woolworth  Building,  a  real 
cathedral — a  triumphant  example  of  the  skill  and 
ideals  of  the  present  moment,  which  is  what  pos- 
terity will  ask  of  us,  which  you  would  give  posterity 
freely,  gladly,  if  you  were  not  hypnotised  by  the 
past. 

"Why  should  a  Cathedral  of  Commerce  be  abso- 
lutely characteristic  of  modern  America,  and  a  Ca- 
thedral of  Worship  entirely  uncharacteristic?" 


18.     PRACTICAL  ART 

THE  eleventh  annual  convention  of  The  Amer- 
ican Federation  of  Arts  closed  with  a  dinner 
— and  speeches. 

The  speeches  w^ere  excellent.  Practical  and  inform- 
ing, they  kept  tolerably  well  to  the  subject  of  the 
sj^mposium,  which  was  how  to  make  American 
design,  and  the  American  Industrial  arts,  "first 
in  the  world." 

Craftsmen,  men  and  women — makers  of  textiles, 
furniture,  stained  glass,  ironwork,  costumes — spoke, 
and  there  was  quite  a  proper  feeling  shown  that 
the  time  had  come  for  Industrial  Art  to  be  placed 
on  an  equal  footing  wnth  Fine  Art.  Some  asserted 
that  Industrial  Art  is  quite  as  fine  as  Fine  Art. 
One  speaker,  the  editor  of  The  Upholsterer,  made 
a  hit:  he  struck  out  a  phrase  that  won  instant  ap- 
plause. Fumbling,  as  we  all  do,  with  such  terms  as 
Industrial  Art,  Applied  Art,  the  Arts  of  Design  in 
their  relation  to  Manufacturers,  suddenly  he  used 
the  words — Practical  Art.  The  audience  applauded. 
That  is  precisely  the  right  term.  There  is  Fine 
Art  and  there  is  Practical  Art. 
The  use  of  that  term  cleared  my  mind,  gave  the 
designers  and  makers  of  practical  art  things  a  posi- 
tion as  definite  as  the  makers  of  pictures ;  and  it  also 
had  the  effect  of  inclining  me  to  be  somewhat  im- 
107 


io8  Art  and  I 

patient  with  the  speeches.  Excellent  though  they 
were,  gradually  they  seemed  to  be  rather  like 
arranging  the  furniture  and  decoration  of  the  vari- 
ous rooms  of  a  house  before  the  house  is  built. 
The  question  in  my  mind  was — how  can  you  expect 
the  public  to  be  interested  in  Practical  Art  if,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  public,  you  treat  it  as  a  kind  of  Cinder- 
ella, always  kept  in  the  background,  while  Fine  Art 
struts  abroad  in  the  light,  receiving  all  the  honour 
and  favour?  None  of  the  speakers  struck  this  broad, 
big  note;  they  were  overmuch  concerned  with  the 
details  of  their  particular  crafts,  and  they  all  had 
so  much  to  say  that  no  opportunity  was  given  to  me 
of  delivering  the  speech  which  I  was  tremulously 
eager  to  launch  upon  the  assembly.  But  I  made  the 
speech  as  I  walked  home,  and  it  ran  something  like 
this: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  interested  in  Practical  Art, 
it  occurs  to  me  to  ask  why  I  am  not  able,  tomorrow 
morning,  to  walk  into  a  building  in  New  York  and 
there  see  the  picked  specimens,  the  prize  examples  of 
articles  made  in  the  twentieth  century  which  have 
been  so  eloquently  described  this  evening.  In  plain 
words,  why  is  there  not  in  this  city,  and  in  other 
cities,  a  Museum  of  Practical  Art? 
"I  can  see  pictures  that  have  been  painted  in  the 
twentieth  century,  although  not  over  many  of  them, 
and  I  can  see  endless  pictures  painted  in  past  cen- 
turies, and  innumerable  examples  of  Practical  Art, 
made  in  old  Europe,  rare  and  costly,  and  only 
obtainable  by  the  very  wealthy.  But  the  Practical 
Art  of  today  is  neglected.    Where,  in  any  country, 


The  Art  of  Today  109 

can  you  see  in  an  Exhibition  Hall  the  best  chair, 
table,  couch,  wall  paper,  rug,  lamp  made  in  the 
twentieth  century?  Nowhere.  Such  things  are  not 
considered  suitable  for  a  Museum.  Yet  these  are 
the  very  things  for  which  there  is  a  continuous 
demand.  Few  persons  are  in  the  position  to  buy 
Fine  Art ;  all  persons,  at  some  time  or  other  of  their 
lives,  are  buyers  of  Practical  Art,  and  all  are  faced 
with  the  same  difficulty.  The  Museums  give  them 
no  guidance.  They  rarely  show  specimens  of  the 
best  craftmanship  of  our  own  day,  carefully  chosen, 
carefully  catalogued,  with  the  names  of  the  design- 
ers and  makers,  articles  adapted  to  the  needs  of  the 
time  in  which  we  live.  The  shops,  following  the 
Museums,  repeat  the  models  of  past  centuries,  and 
most  householders  think  they  have  earned  the  right 
to  be  called  artistic  when  they  have  filled  their 
rooms  with  so-called  period  furniture  and  deco- 
rations. 

"You  blame  the  people  for  not  being  interested  in 
the  Practical  Art  of  the  twentieth  century.  How 
can  the  public  be  interested  in  something  which  you 
never  show  them?  What  you  manufacturers  pro- 
duce passes  from  your  stock  rooms  to  stores  where 
designs,  whether  they  be  good  or  bad,  are  lost  in 
the  multitude  of  objects.  The  salesman  is  indif- 
ferent. Good  and  bad  are  one  to  him.  He  is  there 
to  sell. 

"Why  are  paintings,  for  which  there  is  no  particular 
demand,  always  honoured  ?  Why  are  chairs,  tables, 
electric  light  fittings  and  radiators,  for  which  there 
is  always  a  demand,  never  honoured  ?    Is  it  because 


no  Art  and  I 

we  are  snobs,  eager  to  pet  Fine  Art,  prone 
to  snub  Practical  Art?  Why  is  there  not  a  yearly 
salon  of  the  Practical  Art  of  the  day,  and  a 
permanent  museum  for  the  best  pieces?  Why 
should  not  prizes — medals  and  money — be  given  for 
the  best  examples  of  Practical  Art,  as  for  paintings  ? 
It  is  useless  to  bewail  the  arrogance  of  Fine  Art 
practitioners.  Show  the  public  that  you  makers  of 
Practical  Art  are  in  earnest,  proud  of  the  work 
you  are  doing,  eager  to  have  it  esteemed,  and  the 
public  will  respond.  Be  pleased  with  your  own 
day:  be  fiercely  favourable  to  its  products.  Make 
the  twentieth  century  glorious. 

"One  of  the  speakers  has  referred  to  a  rule  made 
when  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  in  London, 
was  founded.  The  Board  of  Trustees  announced 
that  nothing  made  during  the  past  fifty  years  should 
be  exhibited.  That,  I  submit,  is  an  idiotic  and 
cowardly  rule.  If  the  directors  of  a  museum  are 
afraid  to  determine  what  is  good,  and  what  is  bad, 
among  the  craft  works  of  their  own  time,  they 
should  resign.  Why,  they  are  chosen  because  they 
are  arbiters  of  taste.  Unfortunately,  this  rule  is 
also  implicit  in  American  museums.  What  is  the 
result?  The  average  householder  of  today  has  no 
guide. 

"In  New  York,  the  Metropolitan  Museum  does  not 
help  him.  Of  what  use  to  the  ordinary  man  is  the 
sight  of  an  Empire  couch,  or  a  Chippendale  chair, 
each  of  which  cost  more  than  the  entire  sum  he  has 
to  expend  on  furnishing?  Get  your  museum  of  Con- 
temporary   Practical    Art    established.      Make    it 


The  Art  of  Today  in 

attractive;  make  it  the  meeting  place  of  designer^ 
manufacturer,  and  public. 

"I  have  just  used  the  word  attractive.  These  mu- 
seums of  Fine  and  Practical  Art  must  be  made 
attractive,  and  they  must  be  open  in  the  evening. 
Have  you  ever  asked  yourselves  why,  in  the  eve- 
nings, the  only  leisure  time  that  the  average  person 
has,  the  museums  are  closed?  A  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury hence  people  will  be  astonished  at  our  present 
custom  of  closing  museums  at  5  in  the  afternoon, 
and  at  their  lack  of  the  ordinar>'  social  attractions. 
"The  Museum  of  the  Future  will  be  a  Palace  of 
Art,  a  Palace  of  Delight:  it  will  be  so  humanised 
that  a  family,  on  the  occasion  of  a  festival  or  a 
treat,  will  say,  naturally — 'Oh,  let's  go  to  the  Mu- 
seum.' It  will  be  placed  in  a  park:  there  will  be  a 
lake  there,  and  boating  and  walks:  there  will  be 
music  and  dancing,  and  plays :  there  will  be  cheerful 
dining  and  refreshment  rooms:  there  will  be  open 
colonnades  for  the  display  of  sculpture;  there  will 
be  flowers  and  trees  in  the  grounds,  and  the  centre 
of  all  this  happy  social  activity  will  be  the  halls 
and  lecture  rooms  of  Fine  and  Practical  Art,  so  well 
arranged,  so  well  thought  out,  so  harmonious  that 
the  practical  things  will  be  fine,  and  the  fine  things 
will  be  practical.  That  is  my  peep  into  the 
Future. 
"I  thank  you." 


PART  II 
THE  ART  OF  TOMORROW 


THE  ART  OF  TOMORROW 

1.    A  TOMORROW  PICTURE 

SOME  bemoan  the  Art  of  Tomorrow,  which  has 
disturbed  the  Twentieth  Century,  others  extol 
it — that  is  the  way  of  the  world.  This  revolution 
did  not  begin  precisely  as  the  clocks  chimed  mid- 
night of  1899.  For  years  it  had  been  germinating. 
Cezanne,  Van  Gogh,  Gauguin  were  all  Nineteenth 
Century  men,  so  was  Georges  Seurat;  and  Picasso 
(cubist)  and  Matisse  (elementalist)  were  advanc- 
ing before  the  Twentieth  Century  dawned.  But 
the  art  historian  who  loves  order,  and  delights  in 
epochs,  has  decided  that  the  new  movement  in  art 
shall  be  pigeonholed  as  belonging  to  the  Twentieth 
Century. 

The  new  movement  is  neither  very  good  nor  very 
wicked,  but  it  is  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  because 
it  belongs  to  growth.  Extremists  have  debased  it, 
and  the  horde  of  followers  who  are  always  on  the 
scent  for  short  cuts  to  notoriety  have  made  it  vulgar. 
But  in  spite  of  these  disadvantages,  the  new  move- 
ment remains  vital,  an  opening  avenue,  because,  au 
fond,  it  is  a  movement  toward  simplicity:  it  is  an 
attempt  to  reach  the  heart  of  things  by  discarding 
the  superfluities  that  follow  the  pursuit  of  art  as 
115 


Ii6  Art  and  I 

representation:  it  is  an  attempt  to  unbare  essentials 
in  the  intuitive  search  for  expression. 
Representation  versus  Expression — the  actual  lion 
as  seen  by  Landseer  versus  the  lion-like  quality  of 
the  lion  as  expressed  in  a  bas-relief  by  an  ancient 
Assyrian  sculptor.  The  actual  horse,  the  actual 
tree  versus  the  horsiness  of  the  horse  and  the  tree- 
iness  of  the  tree.  In  a  word,  the  difference  betv\'een 
the  art  of  West  and  East. 

The  new  movement  in  art  in  the  West  simply 
means  that  there  has  been  a  throw-back  to  the  im- 
memorial art  of  the  East.  Add  to  it  colour,  frank, 
fine  colour,  rhythm,  with  a  fierce  quest  for  element- 
alism,  and  you  have,  according  to  your  temperament 
and  training,  something  that  is  either  "The  Purifi- 
cation of  Painting"  or  "An  Insult  to  Our  Intelli- 
gence." 

The  new  is  not  better  than  the  old.  Its  value  is 
that  it  is  an  expression  of  the  time  in  which  we  live. 
The  superiority  of  the  new  over  the  old,  or  the  old 
over  the  ntw  lies  in  the  calibre  of  the  artist.  If 
he  be  a  man  of  genius,  or  approaching  ^enius,  he 
should  be  able  to  convince  us  that  his  way  was  right 
for  him.  A  landscape  by  Giovanni  Bellini,  such  a 
one  as  "St.  Francis,"  in  Mr.  Prick's  collection,  is 
not  worse  nor  better  than  a  landscape  by  Constable, 
although  Constable  gives  a  much  more  faithful 
representation  of  nature.  It  is  different.  Bellini's 
landscape  is  better  because  he  was  a  greater  man 
than  Constable.  Neither  is  a  picture  by  Bastien 
Lepage,  who  may  be  called  the  last  of  the  old,  better 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  117 

than  a  picture  by  Augustus  John,  who  may  be  called 
the  first  of  the  new. 

These  two  men  may  be  taken  as  types  of  the  tw'o 
schools  of  Representation  and  Expression.  Each  is 
an  outstanding  figure,  and  the  art  of  each  is  in- 
formed with  that  sanity  which  is  dear  to  the  heart 
of  the  historian.  Neither  is  extreme,  and  yet  neither 
has  wavered  from  his  conception  of  the  thing  seen. 
But  there  is  this  difference  between  them.  Bastien 
Lepage  painted  his  last  picture  in  1884;  Augustus 
John  is  now  at  the  most  interesting  stage  of  his 
career.  He  is  the  significant  figure  in  British  art, 
and  although  he  has  not  yet  been  elected  a  member 
of  the  Royal  Academy  (the  President  should  go  to 
him  with  hat  in  his  hand),  Augustus  John  has 
reached  that  rare  distinction  of  being  as  popular 
with  the  public  as  with  the  connoisseur. 
To  say  that  Bastien  Lepage  is  the  last  of  the  old 
"representation"  method  of  painting,  and  Augustus 
John  the  first  of  the  new  "expression"  method  of 
painting  may  not  be  academically  correct,  but  'twill 
serve.  It  doubly  serves  because  now  there  is  an 
excellent  opportunity  of  comparing  and  contrasting 
remarkable  pictures  by  Bastien  Lepage  and  Augus- 
tus John.  If  you  stand  in  Room  21  of  the  Metro- 
politan Museum,  New  York,  you  will  see  on  the 
wall  facing  you  "Joan  of  Arc,"  by  Bastien  Lepage, 
painted  in  1879;  then  turn  your  eyes  a  little  to  the 
left,  look  through  the  doorway,  and  you  will  see 
Augustus  John's  "The  Way  Down  to  the  Sea," 
painted  in  1915.  These  two  pictures  do  not  coalesce. 
Why  should   they?     They  are  statements  of  two 


1 1 8  Art  and  I 

periods  in  art,  by  two  remarkable  men,  and  it  is 
our  place  to  attune  ourselves  to  accepting  them  as 
we  accepted  the  automobile  when  it  took  the  place 
of  the  family  barouche. 

The  "Joan  of  Arc"  is  a  large  green  picture,  once, 
no  doubt,  a  very  lively  green,  but  now  dulled  by 
40  years  of  exposure.  The  important  part  of  the 
picture  is  the  figure  of  Joan,  a  masterly  statement 
of  tense  idealism,  vigorously  drawn.  The  head  and 
the  eyes  are  really  the  whole  picture.  All  the  rest 
is  accessory — unwanted.  But  in  Bastien's  daj'^ — the 
period  of  Salon  triumphs  and  huge  competitive  can- 
vases— a  painter  had  to  tell  his  whole  story,  so  we 
are  given,  in  the  background,  vaporous,  unconvinc- 
ing representations  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  Catherine 
and  a  peasant's  garden  at  Damvillers,  where  Bastien 
lived,  nothing  omitted,  everj'thing  set  down  as  it 
was,  even  to  the  arrangement  for  carding  yarn,  and 
the  overturned  stool.  This  is  the  art  of  representa- 
tion which  has  existed  in  the  West  for  centuries. 
This  garden,  painted  as  it  was,  is  merely  dull:  it  is 
without  any  decorative  or  rhythmical  quality:  all 
that  matters  in  the  picture  is  the  tense  idealism  of 
Joan's  face. 

When  the  eyes  turn  from  this  to  Augustus  John's 
"The  Way  Down  to  the  Sea,"  the  observer  is  con- 
scious of  a  shock,  but  to  the  right-minded  and  recep- 
tive it  is  a  pleasurable  shock.  This  blue  picture 
called  "The  Way  Down  to  the  Sea"  is  unlike  any- 
thing else  in  the  gallery — indeed,  it,  and  pictures  of 
its  kind,  should  hang  in  a  room  by  themselves.  You 
cannot  put  very  new  wine  into  very  old  bottles. 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  119 

Wherein  lie  the  charm  and  the  abiding  interest  of 
John's  picture?  Because  it  is  a  decoration;  because 
it  is  in  the  tradition  of  the  East,  not  of  the  West; 
because,  if  it  does  not  altogether  ignore  that  exact- 
ing third  dimension  called  depth,  it  treats  the  fetish 
with  a  light  hand.  There  is  no  harm  in  representa- 
tion. Great  men,  such  as  Velasquez,  have  done  it 
superbly,  to  the  world's  great  gain,  but  when  the 
mediocre  painter  has  so  little  imagination  and  tem- 
perament that  he  can  do  no  more  than  represent 
facts,  you  get  nothing  more  than  "Washington 
Crossing  the  Delaware"  or,  in  a  higher  degree, 
Bastien  Lepage's  garden  at  Damvillers. 
But  this  Augustus  John  has  something  more  than 
the  essential  decorative  quality.  It  has  pure,  un- 
worried  colour,  put  on  in  sweeps  of  intense  delight 
by  one  who  had  visualised  the  scene  beforehand,  and 
knew  just  what  he  was  going  to  do.  There  are 
four  fairly  young  and  very  statuesque  women  garbed 
in  homemade  blue,  violet  and  yellow  gowns,  and  a 
sunburnt,  naked  child.  They  stand  against  the  blue 
sky  and  the  blue  sea,  and  in  the  foreground  are 
scarce,  symbolistic  shrubs  and  flowers  like  those  in 
pictures  by  Piero  della  Francesca. 
Some  people  pause  before  this  picture  and  snigger. 
That  is  because  it  is  not  like  the  "Way  Down  to 
the  Sea"  they  know  at  Atlantic  City  or  Coney 
Island,  at  Margate  or  Yarmouth.  This  is  a  dream 
"Way  Down  to  the  Sea,"  and  after  the  way  of 
dreams,  waking  or  sleeping,  it  is  more  convincing 
than  the  actual  thing.  Augustus  John  saw  this 
scene  in  his  visual  imagination;  he  saw  it  in  terms 


120  Art  and  I 

of  colour  and  rhythm,  and  he  had  the  courage,  or 
the  natural  instinct,  to  paint  what  his  pictorial  im- 
agination saw. 

Augustus  John  was  a  great  draftsman  from  the 
first.  He  came  slowly,  and  with  difficulty,  to  the 
messy  business  of  loading  his  canvas  with  oil  colour. 
He  has  never  quite  mastered  the  business.  Prob- 
ably he  does  not  want  to  do  so.  He  desires  to  go 
his  own  way  and  keep  his  freedom.  That  way  he 
himself  expressed  some  years  ago  when  he  and 
Orpen  had  an  art  school.  Again  and  again  he 
would  say  to  his  students,  "Draw  as  well  as  ever 
you  can  and  then  decorate  your  drawing  with  a 
little  colour." 

That  is  what  he  has  done  in  "The  Way  Down  to 
the  Sea,"  but  the  note  of  colour  has  become  a 
bugle-call. 


2.    CEZANNE 

T  N  the  cities  of  Europe  and  of  the  United  States 
•*•  exasperating  little  exhibitions  are  continually 
bobbing  up  from  the  deep  traditional  waters  of  art. 
They  are  styled  Modern,  Contemporary,  or  Revo- 
lutionary ;  but  a  better  title  for  these  sporadic  shows 
is  "The  Art  of  Tomorrow." 

The  casual  Philistine  derides  them,  the  serious  stu- 
dent examines  the  am.azing  items  attentively;  he  has 
his  reward.  Practice  tells  him  at  a  glance  which  of 
these  Art  of  Tomorrow  pictures  are  insincere,  done 
for  effect  with  the  tongue  in  the  cheek,  short  cuts  to 
notoriety.  These  may  amuse  (why  should  not  the 
serious  student  be  amused?),  but  having  looked,  he 
ignores  them.  They  do  not  count ;  they  have  no  art 
existence.  He  is  content  if  he  distils  from  one  of 
these  exasperating  little  exhibitions  a  few  vital  and 
significant  works  that  may  be  classed  as  serious  con- 
tributions to  the  Art  of  Tomorrow.  They  are  pio- 
neers of  the  new  movement  of  art — toward  freedom. 
And  so  I  come  to  Paul  Cezanne,  born  at  Aix  in 
Provence  in  1839.  For  it  is  from  this  recluse,  from 
this  splendid  "failure,"  from  him  more  than  from 
anyone  else,  that  moderns  have  learnt  the  meaning 
of  Freedom  in  Art. 

If  the  world  of  art  is  not  yet  free,  and  certainly 
it  is  not,  the  reason  is  because  the  world  of  art  is 

121 


122  Art  and  I 

not  yet  worthy  of  freedom.  Liberty  is  not  license, 
and  Freedom  in  Art,  as  in  life,  requires  stern  self- 
discipline,  more  rigorous,  more  self-denying  than 
when  art  lived  and  moved  entirely  under  the 
autocracy  of  academies  and  tradition.  Some  of  the 
practitioners  of  the  Art  of  Tomorrow  are  producing 
vain  and  vile  works  because  they  are  not  yet  worthy 
of  freedom.  But  a  cause  is  judged,  and  advances, 
by  the  good  in  it,  not  by  the  evil.  The  unworthy 
brothers  pass  cut,  cease  to  exist,  because  of  their 
unworthiness.  It  is  the  good  that  blossoms. 
Of  the  thousands  of  Freedom  pictures  that  have 
been  painted  since  the  century  dawned,  it  may  be 
said,  speaking  in  the  most  general  way,  that  Paul 
Cezatine  was  the  parent,  that  is,  the  parent  of  the 
idea  that  binds  them  together.  No  doubt  Cezanne 
would  be  vastly  shocked  and  displeased  at  the  look 
of  some  of  his  many  offspring,  yet  they  are  born 
from  his  long,  solitary  broodings  and  reachings-out 
toward  freedom  of  expression — and  to  the  fourth 
dimension.  He  was  not  always  a  solitary;  for 
years  he  was  one  of  a  group  that  worked 
diligently  on  the  lines  which  he  alone  pursued  logic- 
ally and  unwaveringly  to  the  end.  That  was  the 
difference  between  Cezanne  and  the  brilliant  com- 
panions of  his  earlier  period — he,  he  alone,  endured 
to  the  end  as  seeing,  and  always  following,  some- 
thing that  is  invisible. 

In  those  days  he  was  an  Impressionist,  and  he  has 
been  described  as  the  boldest  spirit  in  the  circle  of 
the  Ecole  de  Batignolles  that  gathered  around 
Manet.     He,    like    Manet    and    Camille   Pissarro, 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  123 

eschewed  the  anecdote,  despised  the  story,  glided 
over  the  fact  in  their  passionate  search  for  the 
fleeting  effect;  but  Cezanne's  nature  was  deeper 
than  Manet's  or  Pissarro's.  He  sought,  and  he 
never  desisted  from  the  search,  for  something  more 
perdurable  than  the  effect;  he  sought  the  heart  of 
life,  not  the  gestures. 

So  we  find  him,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  powers, 
retiring  to  his  birthplace,  Aix  in  Provence,  where 
his  father  was  a  prosperous  banker  (Cezanne  never 
lacked  money),  and  there,  day  after  day,  month 
after  month,  year  after  year,  the  world  forgetting, 
by  the  world  forgotten,  seeking  the  truth  about  art, 
continually  experimenting,  never  fainting  by  the 
way,  never  reaching  his  goal,  living  in  a  state  of 
"timid  savagery."  He  was  virtually  a  hermit;  he 
never  dined  out ;  he  never  had  callers ;  he  was  looked 
at  askance  by  his  fellow  townsmen  as  one  harmless 
but  "touched,"  visited  occasionally  by  a  friend,  M. 
Bernheim  being  one,  content  with  learning  how  to 
paint  what  he  saw,  making  such  profound  utterances 
as  "There  is  no  such  thing  as  line,  no  such  thing  as 
modelling,  there  are  only  contrasts." 
There  was  no  hardship  for  Cezanne  in  this  exile. 
Paris  distressed  him  as  London  had  distressed  Wag- 
ner, who  complained  that  in  London  he  could  not 
hear  the  inner  memory.  Cezanne  fled  from  Paris. 
"There  were  within  him  such  profound,  such  con- 
fused desires,"  says  M.  Elie  Faure,  "that  the  noise 
about  him  prevented  his  hearing  them."  Paris  tor- 
tured his  "terrible  sensibility."  His  birthplace  was 
kind  to  him. 


124  Art  and  I 

How,  then,  has  this  strange  man  influenced  the 
modern  art  world?  By  being  himself — nothing 
more.  He  turned  away  from  the  three-decker  mas- 
terpiece, and  paddled  out  on  the  waters  of  art  in  his 
own  canoe.  For  him  nature  only,  her  face  and  the 
face  of  man  and  woman,  never  "the  lie  of  the  noble 
subject." 

So,  if  anyone  says  to  you — "Show  me  the  great 
works  of  Cezanne,"  you  can  but  answer — "There 
are  none."  He  painted  many  small  landscapes, 
portraits  and  still  lifes:  he  was  not  interested  in 
producing  "Masterpieces,"  His  works  are  not  easy 
to  find — Cezanne  is  not  yet  as  popular  as  Inness — 
but  the  true  connoisseur,  standing  before  them,  is 
able  to  justify  the  grave  words  of  Renoir — ■ 
"Cezanne  cannot  put  two  touches  on  a  canvas  with- 
out its  being  already  an  achievement."  Tentative, 
bits  of  the  canvas  untouched,  generally  unfinished, 
scraped,  scored  with  erasures,  many  times  repainted, 
yet  a  picture  by  Cezanne  moves  and  stimulates  with 
a  rugged  power  that  few  modern  pictures  possess. 
It  is  difficult  to  express  in  words  just  what  that 
power  is.  But  contrast  Monet's  "The  Church  of 
Vetheuil,"  with  Cezanne's  "L'Estaque,  a  Village 
Near  Marseilles."  Examine  them  carefully  and 
you  will  understand  why  the  fame  of  Monet  is 
waning,  and  the  fame  of  Cezanne  is  waxing. 
Monet's  picture  is  the  blare  of  a  cornet,  Cezanne's 
is  the  wail  of  a  violin. 

After  his  retirement  to  Aix  Cezanne  was  indififer- 
ent  to  the  fate  of  his  pictures,  when  once  his  ardour 
had  expressed   itself  on  them.     It  is  said  that  on 


The  Art  of  Tomorroiv  125 

occasions  he  would  leave  them  in  the  fields  and 
tramp  home  meditating  a  fresh,  splendid  failure. 
But  others,  a  few,  saw  their  value.  Pere  Tanguy 
and  Vollard,  those  two  French  dealers  of  genius, 
bought  stacks  of  them  for  trifles.  Great  has  been 
the  pecuniary  reward  of  their  foresight.  And  there 
were  three  days  in  Paris,  in  1899,  at  Choquets' 
sale  at  Petit's,  when  purchasers  fought  for  Cezanne's 
best  things.  He  was  then  60.  He  had  arrived. 
Little  he  cared.  Five  years  later,  31  of  his  works 
were  exposed  at  the  Salon. 

Little  he  cared.  He  had  already  written  his  epi- 
taph, summed  up  his  toiling  life,  that  day  w^hen  he 
said,  querulously,  to  a  friend — "I  am  the  primitive 
of  the  way  that  I  have  discovered." 


3.     FREEDOM 

SAID  I  to  the  Mural  Painter — "We  have  had 
many  art  talks.  I  have  enjoyed  what  you  have 
said,  I  have  enjoyed  what  I  have  said,  for  nothing 
clears  the  understanding  more  than  what  they  call 
in  Scotland — *a  guid  crack' ;  but  best  of  all  I 
appreciate  and  remember  your  flashes  at  truth. 
Sometimes  they  are  against  your  mundane  con- 
victions (pooh!  pooh!  what  are  convictions  to  one 
who  wants  to  grow,  and  who  is  growing?)  ;  but  I 
take  these  flashes  to  be  the  real  you  darting  out; 
accepting  them  bravely,  even  if  the  dart  assails  and 
hurts  your  equanimity." 

The  Mural  Painter  sat  up.     "What  have  I  done 
now?    Explain!    What  have  I  said ?" 
"Please  wait,"  said  I.     "There  is  something  to  be 
investigated    and    explained    first.      When    I    have 
finished  I'll  repeat  two  of  your  flashes  at  truth,  and 
then  leave  you  to  be  glad,  or  to  be  angry,  at  the 
self-revelation,   whichever  you   like.     But  I'll  tell 
you  when  it  was  you  shot  them  forth.     One  was 
when  you  were  talking  about  the  mural  paintings 
by  Arthur  B.   Davies;  the  other  leapt  out  at  the 
loan  exhibition  of  his  works." 
"Whatever  did  I  say?"  cried  the  Mural  Painter. 
"You  said  it  in  front  of  that  remarkable  decoration 
by  Davies,  called  'The  Dawning.'  " 
126 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  izji 

"But  I  don't  like  it!"  shouted  the  Mural  Painter. 
"Wait,  pray  wait!  Just  let  me  say  how  fortunate 
I  am  in  being  a  stranger  in  America." 
"Why?  Don't  you  like  the  Land  of  the  Free?" 
"Entirely.  Let  me  explain.  I  am  fortunate,  be- 
cause I  come  here  with  an  absolutely  fresh  mind. 
Every'thing  is  new  to  me.  I  have  no  parti  pris,  no 
predilections.  I  am  virgin  soil.  Take  the  case  of 
Arthur  B.  Davies.  I  gather  that  he  is  one  of  your 
most  eminent,  individual  artists;  that  he  is  of  the 
small  class  who  grow ;  that  he  saw  the  virtue  of  that 
branch  of  post-impressionism  called  cubism,  that  he 
has  practised  it;  and  I  find  that  his  divagations,  or 
growth,  as  I  call  it,  have  been  received  with  immense 
respect  by  the  American  critics,  which  is  much  to 
their  credit,  although  several  academic  heads  have 
been  sadly  wagged.  Davies  is  a  fact  in  American 
art,  a  fact  that  is  as  lively  as  an  electron  or  wireless; 
lively  electrons,  wireless  and  Davies  are  potential, 
pregnant,  and  any  day  may  disclose  something 
new. 

"Now  do  you  begin  to  understand  why  I  called 
myself  fortunate  ?  A  year  ago  I  knew  nothing  about 
Davies.  The  day  before  yesterday  I  saw  the  exhi- 
bition of  his  collected  works;  yesterday  I  saw  his 
mural  decoration;  today  I  sit  here  enjoying,  hugely 
enjoying,  the  image  of  a  new — that  is,  new  to  me — 
artistic  personality,  one  who  has  made  adventures  in 
Freedom,  who  is  perennially  young,  because  he  is 
always  on  the  quest.  His  picture  called  'Adven- 
ture' exactly  expresses  his  attitude  toward  art. 
Against  a  hilly  background   of  great  beauty  two 


128  Art  and  I 

figures  pause,  wistfully,  in  wan  delight  ere  they 
advance  again  into  the  land  of  adventure,  where 
a  figure  shines,  luring  them  on  to  a  dream  of  free- 
dom, yet  an  awakening  freedom.  This  is  a  later 
Davies,  later  like  the  symbolistic  'Freshness  of  the 
Wounded'  and  'Line  of  Mountains,'  two  pictures 
that  cannot  be  dissociated  from  the  titles.  These, 
indeed,  are  art  for  life's  sake,  not  art  for  art's 
sake. 

"Few  artists  could  stand  such  an  unrolling  of  a 
life's  work.  Davies  can,  because  he  is  frank,  a  frank 
adventurer  in  the  best  sense;  that  is,  he  is  always 
seeking  mental  food  from  man  as  well  as  from 
nature.  Like  Raphael  with  his  master,  Perugino, 
like  Turner  with  his  ancestor,  Claude,  Davies  takes 
his  inspiration  from  where  he  chooses.  I  could  men- 
tion a  dozen  painters,  from  Piero  della  Franceses 
and  Giorgione  to  Whistler  and  Fuller,  upon  whom 
he  has  looked.  But  he  does  not  plagiarise.  Like  a 
bee,  he  sips,  passes  on  to  another  flower,  and  the 
honey  is  all  his  own.  Such  things  are  but  food  for 
his  frame.  His  very  beautiful  picture  called  'Sleep' 
is  Watteau  idealised,  and  Blake  would  have  loved 
to  paint  his  'Flume  of  Destiny*  had  he  been  able  to 
draw  better. 

"Davies  is  akin  to  Blake  the  mystic,  and  Shelley, 
the  essence  of  poetry;  he  is  of  their  family;  he  walks 
with  them,  and  with  those  finer  modern  spirits  of 
whom  Romain  Rolland  has  spoken,  through  the 
modern,  distracting  world. 

"But  he  never  closes  his  eyes :  they  are  always  open 
and  the  winds  blow  him  secrets.    So  when  Cubism 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  129 

cut  suddenly  fnto  the  art  world,  that  old  Cubism, 
that  old  truth  (Giovanni  di  Paolo  practised  it  450 
years  ago — 450  years  before  Cezanne  and  Picasso 
formulated  it),  the  hour  found  Arthur  B.  Davies 
peering  curiously  into  it.  He  saw  its  power,  bent 
it  into  his  intelligence,  and  he  knew  that  this 
Cubism,  if  properly  used,  was  an  avenue  of  Free- 
dom. 

"Did  you  ever  read  Cezanne  on  Cubism?"  asked  I. 
The  Mural  Paintei  signalled  a  negative. 
"Cezanne,  that  wonderful  man  whom  the  academic 
world  insists  upon  misunderstanding  because  he 
declined  to  paint  masterpieces,  and  was  in  the  habit 
of  casting  his  pictures  away  when  he  had  expressed 
himself  upon  them,  said  once  to  a  companion — 
'Everything  in  nature  is  modelled  on  the  lines  of  the 
cube,  the  cone  and  the  cylinder.  If  you  understand 
how  to  paint  these  simple  forms  you  can  paint 
anything.  Contrasts  and  modulations — there  you 
have  the  secret  for  drawing  and  modelling.' 
"Cezanne  did  not  tell  all  to  his  companion.  Davies 
himself  told  more  to  a  companion  when  one  day 
he  placed  a  glass  before  one  of  his  own  early  charm- 
ing pictures,  and  painted  on  the  glass  the  significant 
lines  of  his  picture.  'There,'  he  said,  holding  up 
the  glass,  'this  skeleton  of  form  contains  all  the 
aesthetic  emotion  suggested  by  my  picture.  Now 
it  is  released  from  all  extraneous  interest,  from  all 
sentimental  irrelevance.' 

"Mr.  Duncan  Phillips,  who  tells  this  story,  is  un- 
repentant.     He   questions    the   seriousness   of   his 


130  Art  and  I 

friend.    Well,  it  is  not  the  first  time  that  a  clever 
man  has  disdained  the  truth. 

"Arthur  B,  Davies  directed  his  faith  into  deeds. 
At  his  collected  exhibition  we  saw  many  of  his 
experiments  in  Cubism — swift,  summary,  the  chill 
of  mechanics  lighted  with  the  warmth  of  colour. 
And  there  is  one  work,  the  vast  decoration  called 
'Dawning,'  into  which  he  has  allied  his  new  knowl- 
edge of  the  geometrical  side  of  art  with  the  old 
knowledge  stored  in  his  vivid,  dreamy,  inquiring 
mind.  This  disturbing,  and  compelling  'Dawning' 
fresco,  which  attracts  more  and  more  each  time  it 
is  seen,  should  be  in  a  public  museum  as  an  example 
to  students,  an  index  finger  pointing  to  the  simpler 
and  purer  form  of  mural  decoration  that  must 
before  long  replace  the  old.  It  is  an  adventure  in 
Freedom,  not  a  dalliance  with  the  Conventional,  a 
phrase  which  describes  most  mural  paintings. 
"Already  this  sapling  in  decoration,  this  'Dawning' 
wall  painting,  has  borne  fruit,  for  it  was  through 
this  that  he  was  commissioned  to  decorate  an  upper 
room  in  a  house — in  his  own  way.  There  it  is — 
(done;  the  four  walls  an  ever-increasing  delight, 
mental  and  sesthetic.  Cubism  triumphant,  because  it 
does  not  stand  alone  as  in  the  cold,  angular,  austere 
creations  of  Picasso,  but  is  allied  to  knowledge,  to 
life.     It  is  mind — and  heart. 

"And  now,"  said  I  to  the  Mural  Painter,  "you 
have   been    very   patient.     Your   waiting   is   over. 
Would  you  like  to  hear  j^our  two  darts  at  truth 
•which  I  appreciate  and  remember?" 
"As  you  will." 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  131 

"You  said  of  Post-Impressionism  (in  an  unguarded 
moment),  'It  has  freed  me.' 

"You  said  of  the  'Dawning'  decoration  (in  an  un- 
guarded moment),  'It  is  only  mind.'  " 


4.    A  GAUGUIN  LANDSCAPE 

SUDDENLY  I  saw  the  "Red  Dog  Landscape," 
and   I   cried— "HuUoa!   what's  this?" 
It  happened  thus. 

It  was  in  London.  I  was  becoming  interested  in 
Gimson  furniture,  and  as  I  knew  that  my  friend, 
Marasco  Pearce,  had  acquired  some  fine  pieces  for 
his  house  in  Chelsea,  I  wrote  to  him,  asking  if  I 
might  examine  them  at  leisure.  He  was  absent  on 
his  military  duties,  but  he  gave  me  permission  to 
roam  his  house,  and  to  remove  the  holland  swathes 
from  the  furniture.  Maresco  Pearce  was  glad,  I 
daresay,  to  encourage  a  potential  Gimsonite.  So  I 
roamed  this  Halsey  Ricardo  house,  delighted  with 
its  plan  and  detail,  and  in  time  I  reached  the 
dining-room,  which  contains  a  Gimson  table  I  par- 
ticularly wished  to  see.  I  saw  it  later,  because,  as 
I  entered  the  room,  something  intervened.  It  was 
as  sudden  as  a  flash  of  sunlight,  and  as  delightful. 
As  the  holland  swathes  covering  the  table  were 
being  removed,  my  gaze  caught  the  austere,  com- 
panionable fireplace,  and  swept  upwards  to  the 
mantelpiece.  Then  it  was  that  I  exclaimed — 
"Hulloa!  what's  this?" 

A  landscape  hanging  above  the  fireplace  was  the 
cause  of  this  ejaculation.     It  gave  me   an   imme- 
diate elation — its  glowing  colour,  rich  and  clean, 
132 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  133 

its  profoundly  simple  pattern,  its  majestic  planes, 
its  robust  air.  This  picture  lighted  and  dominated 
the  room;  and,  as  I  looked,  memories  of  recent 
landscapes  I  had  seen  by  "les  jeunes"  here  and  in 
Paris  began  to  flood  my  memory. 
I  knew  not  who  had  painted  this  jolly  thing,  this 
synthetical  sweep  of  symbolism  so  much  nearer  to 
the  heart  of  nature  than  mere  naked  realism,  with 
the  articulated  hill,  of  green  and  rosy  rocks,  the 
flat  sea,  the  flat  corn,  and  the  alert  red  dog  start- 
ing up  like  a  flag.  It  was  plain  that  the  painter, 
whoever  he  was,  had  vision,  and  an  unerring  deco- 
rative sense.  At  his  bidding  the  cut  corn  has 
assumed  a  rhythmical  pattern  that  is  absolutely 
right,  and  the  litter  of  cast  clothes,  that  is  right 
too.  All  is  eloquent  of  the  artist's  vision  and  inten- 
tion, all  is  visualised  and  communicated.  Bother 
words!  What  joy  it  was  just  to  look  at  it.  This 
is  the  way  to  encounter  art — unexpectedly;  and  to 
be  immediately  enriched,  emotionally  and  mentally, 
by  the  sight. 

Then  I  turned  away,  fixed  my  eyes  resolutely  upon 
the  holland  swathes,  and  tried  to  think  who  the 
painter  might  be.  "Lots  of  little  pictures  in  this 
manner,"  I  reflected,  "have  come  out  of  Chelsea, 
but  this  is  not  by  any  Chelsea  man.  It  is  by  a 
master,  one  who  had  learnt  his  job,  who  was  un- 
afraid of  a  red  dog,  because  he  knew  that  the 
yellow  and  the  blue  called  for  a  dominating  red; 
who  knew  that  a  cunning  red  dog,  even  if  his 
cousin  is  in  a  Noah's  Ark,  is  much  more  amusing 
than  a  red  sunshade.    But  who  is  he?    Who  is  this 


134  ^r^  ^^d  I 

magician,  able  in  grey  winter  to  dazzle  me  with  the 
splendour  of  high  summer,  wrought  into  a  deco- 
rative pattern? 

I  perambulated  the  room ;  then  impatient  of  further 
suspense,  peered  at  the  signature — "P.  Gauguin, 
'90." 

Well,  great  moments  come  to  all — even  to  art 
critics.  To  me  it  was  what  the  late  Henry  James 
would  call  an  immense  adventure  to  realise  that 
this  landscape  was  by  Paul  Gauguin,  and  painted 
thirty  years  ago.  Hitherto,  when  I  have  tried  to 
apportion  the  influence  of  the  members  of  that 
mighty  trio — Cezanne,  Van  Gogh,  and  Gauguin — 
on  modern  art,  I  have  always  felt  disposed  to  omit 
the  name  of  Gauguin.  Not  through  any  lack  of 
fealty  to  this  great  modern  master.  That  wall  of 
his  pictures  at  the  Grafton  Galleries  in  1911 
is  one  of  the  abiding  art  memories  of  my  life; 
but  I  did  not  feel  that  these  pictures  have  had  much 
influence  on  the  younger  generation.  The  "Red 
Dog  Landscape"  changed  my  opinion.  Look  at  it! 
Recall  the  little  revolutionary  landscapes  that  you 
have  seen  during  the  past  five  or  ten  years.  Here 
is  the  parent  of  them. 

Although  painted  thirty  years  ago,  this  Breton 
vision,  which  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  the 
"Red  Dog  Landscape,"  will  seem  to  many  abom- 
inably new,  unconventional,  unlike  the  normal 
vision  (a  synonym  for  lazy  and  obvious),  and 
therefore  anathema.  But  Gauguin  was  painting  to 
please  himself,  not  to  placate  a  Salon  or  a  Royal 
Academy   jury.      He   was    a    born    decorator;   his 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  135: 

artistic  instinct,  his  sense  of  pattern  and  rhythm, 
were  as  sure  as  Whistler's,  but  more  virile.  Nature 
to  him  was  something  not  to  be  copied  accurately, 
but  to  be  remembered  rhythmically,  as  we  recall 
and  croon  a  melody.  One  of  his  sayings  was,  "Study 
your  model,  and  then  put  her  behind  a  curtain." 
Mr.  Brangwj^n,  I  believe,  has  uttered  a  similar 
sentiment.  Gauguin  vividly  remembered  this 
Breton  scene;  he  had  immersed  himself  in  its  swing, 
colour,  and  pattern.  When  he  painted  it,  so  it 
came,  and  that  red  dog  paused  defiantly  on  the 
green  grass  because  the  artist's  colour  sense  insisted 
upon  its  presence.  Blot  it  out  with  your  thumb,  and 
the  picture  is  chilly.  The  red  dog  is  daring,  but  it 
is  a  triumph.  When  M.  Simon  Bussy  saw  it,  he 
read,  "Comvie  c'est  bien  reussi — ce  chien  rouge." 
Many  will  not  like  this  picture,  because  "the 
brown  tree"  (like  the  devil,  the  "brown  tree" 
takes  many  forms)  still  dominates  the  world. 
Gauguin  was  neither  a  Realist  nor  an  Impression- 
ist. He  was  an  Expressionist.  We  talk  glibly 
about  art  being  nature  seen  through  a  temperament, 
and  at  once  proceed  to  see  it  through  somebody 
else's  temperament.  Gaugviin  drank  from  his  own 
glass,  and  drank  deep;  he  drank  deeper  after  he 
had  severed  himself  from  the  contagion  of  Parisian 
glasses.  The  civilisation  of  Paris  desiccated  him. 
His  spiritual  home  was  Tahiti.  Thither  he  went, 
because  he  had  an  "immense  yearning  to  become  a 
savage,  and  create  a  new  world."  In  Tahiti  he 
wrote,  "All  I  have  learnt  from  others  has  been  an 


136  Jrt  and  I 

impediment  to  me.  It  is  true  that  I  know  little, 
but  what  I  do  know  is  my  own." 
Like  Degas  and  Chasseriau,  Paul  Gauguin  was 
a  Creole.  Born  in  Paris  in  1848,  his  father 
a  Breton,  his  mother  a  native  of  Peru,  j'oung 
Paul  ran  away  to  sea  when  he  was  fourteen,  and 
saw  the  untamed  world — its  magic,  its  strangeness, 
and  the  glory  of  its  colour.  Some  5'ears  later,  his 
visual  imagination  dyed  in  the  colour  and  form  of 
strange  lands,  he  returns  to  Paris,  enters  a  bank, 
marries  a  wife,  and  has  children.  Slowly  art 
infects  him ;  he  paints  on  Sundays ;  the  fever  deep- 
ens; at  thirty  he  turns  artist;  at  thirty-two  he 
exhibits  his  first  picture.  Timid  at  the  beginning, 
inclined  to  adore  Pissarro,  soon  he  breaks  away, 
farther,  farther;  a  time  comes  when  he  is  impatient 
with  Monet,  impatient  even  with  Manet  and 
Degas.  His  ffcnie  interieur  cries  for  something 
more  elemental,  something  in  deeper  accord  wi^h 
his  fierce  dreams  of  "big,  simple  mortals  and  an 
unspoilt  nature."  The  "great  barbarian,"  the 
"great  child"  in  him  is  awaking.  When  he  made 
his  first  journey  to  Martinique,  in  1887,  it  awoke 
fully.  In  1888  came  that  terrible  quarrel  with 
Van  Gogh  at  Aries,  followed  by  a  spell  in  Brittany, 
when  he  produced  some  of  his  finest  work,  includ- 
ing the  "Red  Dog  Landscape."  Gradually  he 
wearied  of  civilisation.  In  1891  he  went  to  Tahiti. 
Two  years  later  he  returned  to  Paris.  In  1895  he 
was  in  Tahiti  again,  and  from  that  time  onw^ard 
until  his  death  at  Dominica,  in  1903,  Europe  was 
but  a  place  to  visit.     When  chided  by  Strindberg 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  137 

for  forsaking  civilisation,  he  answered — "Your 
civilisation  is  your  disease.  My  barbarism  is  my  res- 
toration to  health." 

Gauguin  could  have  told  us,  in  short,  succinct  sen- 
tences, the  mental  processes,  following  the  surge  of 
emotion,  that  produced  the  "Red  Dog  Landscape." 
His  voice  is  silent.  We  must  read  the  picture  for 
ourselves.  Happilj^,  it  does  not  adorn  the  walls  of  a 
hut  in  Tahiti.  Here  it  is  in  Chelsea  in  the  house 
of  an  artist,  and  it  is  there  because  Maresco  Pearce 
could  not  resist  its  splendour.  He  saw  it  in  Vol- 
lard's  window  when  he  was  passing  through  Paris 
in  the  autumn  of  1912.  He  wanted  the  "Red  Dog 
Landscape"  badly  (who  would  not?),  but  decided 
that  he  could  not  afford  it,  and  went  his  way. 
Later — he  returned  to  Paris,  interviewed  Vollard, 
and  bought  it.  That  is  the  way  to  acquire  a  fine 
picture.  The  owner  adds,  "You  knew  Vollard,  I 
suppose — a  formidable  chap." 

That  is  so.  I  have  gone  into  Vollard's  shop, 
bearded  the  "formidable  chap,"  and  come  out 
empty-handed,  but  dizzy  with  joy,  the  quick  joy 
that  came  when  I  saw  this  Gauguin  on  a  sad  winter 
day  in  Chelsea,  and  all  my  world  was  glad  again. 


5.     GAUGUIN  IN  MY  ANTHOLOGY 

I  KEEP  an  Art  Anthology.  The  procedure  is 
simple — merely  a  little  book  in  which  I  note 
down,  day  by  day,  or  week  by  week,  the  works  of 
art  that  please  me  specially  or  inordinately.  Against 
the  title  of  the  work  are  stated  the  reasons  for 
my  preference.  In  the  list  there  are  many  erasures. 
These  indicate  rejections,  discards,  works  that  I 
have  outgrown.  A  collector,  in  the  abstract,  as 
well  as  in  the  concrete,  should  be  judged  by  his 
denials  more  than  by  his  affirmations,  as  an  editor 
should  be  judged  rather  by  w^hat  he  omits  than  by 
what  he  prints. 

Gauguin's  name  appears  again  and  again  in  my 
Anthology.  The  first  entry,  a  w^hole  page,  is  a 
dithyramb  on  the  wall  of  Gauguins  that  astonished 
artistic  London  at  the  first  Post-Impressionist  Ex- 
hibition, held  in  the  Grafton  Galleries  in  IQIL 
That  wall  aroused  the  extremes  of  admiration  and 
dislike;  and  then  began  the  discussion  about  the 
recapture  of  the  childlike  vision,  so  real  a  thing, 
so  arduous  a  pursuit,  which  Gauguin  sought  and 
found  far,  far  from  Paris,  in  Tahiti. 
The  second  Gauguin  entry  refers  to  the  purchase, 
by  Professor  Sadler  of  Leeds  Universitj'^,  of  a  group 
of  magnificent  Gauguins,  including  "L'Esprit 
Veille,"  "The  Garden  of  Olives,"  and  "Jacob 
138 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  139 

Wrestling  with  an  Angel,"  three  masterpieces; 
the  entry  also  describes  a  visit  to  Professor  Sadler's 
house,  where  I  saw  the  Gauguins  hanging  in  a 
noble  room,  specially  arranged  and  decorated  for 
them,  with  white  walls  and  black  curtains. 
The  third  entr>-  applauds  the  "Red  Dog  Land- 
scape," by  Gauguin,  at  Maresco  Pearce's  house  in 
London,  about  which  I  have  already  written. 
Now  we  skip  to  New  York,  to  the  two  Gauguins 
I  saw  at  an  exhibition.  One  of  them  hung  at  the 
end  of  the  room.  The  title  is  painted  on  it  by 
Gauguin  himself,  "la  Orana  Maria,"  in  the  Tahi- 
tian  dialect;  the  owner  of  this  outstanding  picture 
is  Mr.  Adolph  Lewisohn.  Outstanding?  Anybody 
can  see  that.  This  is  a  masterpicture,  this  direct 
vision  of  a  glade  in  a  Tahitian  forest,  where  an 
impulsive  religious  ceremony  is  being  performed  by 
figures,  painted  frankly  and  forcibly,  in  the  Gauguin 
manner;  equally  frank  and  forcible  is  the  colour 
and  line.  The  foreground  girl's  red  garment  sings. 
In  the  luscious  tropical  fruits  and  flowers  the  rich 
episodes  of  growth  from  seed-time  to  ripe  harvest 
are  implied.  On  an  adjoining  wall  was  a  picture  of 
flowers,  an  excellent  work  by  a  modern.  While  I 
was  staring  at  the  Gauguin  and  chuckling,  a  lady  at 
my  side  said,  "Before  I  saw  this  I  was  admiring 
those  other  flowers.  Now  they  look  tame." 
The  other  Gauguin  is  less  important,  yet  very  im- 
portant. It  is  a  glass  door  in  green  wood:  it  is 
no  longer  an  ordinary  door  because  it  is  a  door 
from  Gauguin's  house  in  Tahiti,  and  Gauguin  has 
painted  a  scene  on  the  glass.     It  is  an  authentic 


140  Art  and  I 

Gauguin  seen  simply,  and  beautifully  designed  and 
drawn. 

This  door  has  an  interesting  history.  It  was 
brought  from  Tahiti  by  Mr.  Somerset  Maugham, 
and  he  had  it  by  him  when  he  wrote  "The  Moon 
and  Sixpence."  The  book  does  not  mention  the 
name  of  Gauguin.  Neither  does  it  attempt  to  fol- 
low all  the  details  of  Gauguin's  life.  Indeed,  in 
instances  it  carefully  camouflages  them.  The  hero 
of  "The  Moon  and  Sixpence"  is  an  Englishman, 
lives  the  early  part  of  his  life  in  London,  and  mar- 
ries an  English  girl.  Gauguin  was  a  Frenchman, 
lived  the  early  part  of  his  life  in  Paris,  and  married 
a  Dane.  Yet  the  book  would  not  have  been  written 
if  it  had  not  been  for  Gauguin.  He  inspires  it. 
He  with  Cezanne  and  Van  Gogh,  to  name  but 
three,  are  vigorous  and  unrelenting  types  of  what 
Bernard  Shaw  in  "The  Irrational  Knot"  calls  the 
"stupendously  selfish  artist."  That  is  the  theme  of 
"The  Moon  and  Sixpence."  But  this  must  be 
said  in  extenuation.  This  stupendous  selfishness  of 
the  artist  is  not  the  ordinary  selfishness  of  indul- 
gence: it  is  the  conviction  that  nothing  matters  but 
art.  In  face  of  that  all  else  must  suffer,  wither, 
and  go.  Gauguin  lived  for  one  thing  only;  he  had 
one  passion  only — to  express  himself  in  his  art. 
That,  as  I  have  said,  is  the  theme  of  Mr.  Mau- 
gham's book.  It  ends  as  Gauguin  ended,  and  it 
suggests  the  intricate  question:  Does  much  happi- 
ness distributed  by  a  man  of  genius  to  the  future 
atone  for  some  unhappiness  distributed  by  him  to 
the  present? 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  141 

Gauguin,  besides  being  a  great  technician  in  his 
art,  was  also  a  dreamer  who  demonstrated  his 
dreams.  "All  I  have  learned  from  others,"  he 
said,  "has  been  an  impediment  to  me.  I  have  an 
immense  yearning  to  become  a  savage  and  create 
a  new  world."  They  spoke  of  him  in  Paris  as  "the 
great  barbarian,  the  great  child." 
In  Tahiti,  3,658  miles  by  sea  from  San  Francisco, 
"the  great  barbarian"  realised  his  dreams.  There  he 
wrote  that  strange  prose  poem  called  "Noa-Noa." 
Gauguin's  influence  as  a  painter  has  been  enormous. 
The  parent  of  the  frank,  unworried  picture,  simple 
and  strong  in  colour,  broad  and  elemental  in 
design,  is  Gauguin. 

His  influence  persists.  But  yesterday  I  saw  a  one- 
man  show  fresh  and  stimulating;  and  although  the 
artist  had  not  plagiarised,  his  vision  would  not  have 
been  possible  had  it  not  been  for  the  ampler  vision 
of  that  pioneer  toward  simplicity,  that  great  child, 
Paul  Gauguin,  whose  desire  was  for  big,  simple  mor- 
tals and  an  unspoilt  nature,  who  cried  for  the 
moon,  and  who  never,  for  most  of  his  pictures, 
got  even  a  sixpence. 


6.    VAN  GOGH 

SOME  years  ago,  probably  in  1909,  I  received' 
for  review  Meier-Graefe's  two  vast  volumes  on 
"Modern  Art."  A  fine  time  I  had  reading  this 
erudite  exposition  of  the  views  of  the  learned  and 
lively  author,.  German  in  his  thoroughness,  Ger- 
man in  his  arrogance,  yet,  in  spite  of  everything, 
the  most  informative,  the  most  provocative,  and — 
let  me  be  honest — the  best  book  on  Modern  Art. 
A  fine  time  I  had  reviewing  it,  a  bewildering  time, 
for  there  is  a  challenge  on  every  page.  Often  the 
author  says  things  that  make  me  want  to  chasten 
him,  and  occasionally  he  says  things  that  make  me 
uncomfortable.  This,  for  example:  "Van  Gogh, 
the  most  remarkable  painter  since  the  Old  Mas- 
ters." 

Can  you  imagine  my  feelings  on  reading  this  sen- 
tence ?  There  was  I,  a  student  of  art,  an  instructor 
of  those  who  are  less  well  informed,  proud  of  my 
knowledge;  and  here  was  this  masterful  German 
saying  that  this  Van  Gogh,  a  man  whose  name  I 
had  never  even  heard,  is  the  most  remarkable  painter 
since  the  Old  Masters. 

That  was  eleven  years  ago.  We  live  and  learn. 
My  ignorance  has  been  corrected.  I  have  learned 
all  I  can  about  the  Dutchman,  Vincent  Van  Gogh 
— art  salesman,  evangelist,  preacher,  artist,  genius; 
142 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  143 

I  have  seen  most  of  the  pictures  he  painted  during 
his  brief  career,  three-fifths  of  them  produced  at 
Aries  rapidly,  with  fury  and  fervour,  between  1887 
and  1889;  and  I  have  talked  with  men  who  have 
spoken  to  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  Vincent  well,"  said  a  cosmopol- 
itan artist  to  me.  "We  thought  nothing  of  him  at 
the  Antwerp  Academy  in  1889.  He  amused  us 
because  of  his  intensity,  his  fierceness  in  painting. 
I  never  knew  anything  like  it.  He  seemed  possessed 
by  a  demon.  He  carried  sticks  of  charcoal  in  his 
jacket  pocket,  and  he  would  draw  on  any  surface 
that  was  handy.  When  he  came  to  see  me  I  would 
cover  up  everything  with  newspapers  to  protect  my 
belongings  from  Vincent's  scrawls." 
After  the  first  Post  Impressionist  exhibition  at  the 
Grafton  Galleries,  London,  in  1910-11  had  been 
running  a  week,  no  Londoner  could  plead  ignorance 
of  Vincent  Van  Gogh.  The  walls  were  crowded 
with  specimens  of  his  vivid,  democratic  art.  I  use 
the  word  democratic  advisedly.  Art,  for  better  or 
worse,  has  been  and  is,  with  some  exceptions,  an 
aristocratic  diversion.  Its  home  is  the  rich  man's 
drawing  room.  Van  Gogh  tossed  it  into  the  poor 
man's  kitchen.  His  published  Letters  show  that 
he  was  a  man  of  culture  and  perception,  a  reflective, 
uneasy  student,  burdened  with  the  desire  to  help 
and  improve  the  world,  eager  to  lead  man  to  God, 
persuasively  and  by  tender  example.  But  when 
painting  he  became  a  Boanerges.  "I  think  in 
colour  .  .  .  ,"  he  wrote.  "I  lash  the  canvas 
with     irregular     strokes,     and     let     them     stand. 


^^t''^'   .V'.'rrTT^T^T-".  M'   A;'««Vri7.v<..jr>i;j;j.:n-»= 


144  A^f  ^nd  I 

...  I  feel  a  power  in  me  which  I  must  develop, 
a  fire  that  I  may  not  quench,  but  must  keep  ablaze. 
.  .  ."  If  canvases  could  feel,  they  would  have 
cried  out  when  Van  Gogh  was  painting  upon 
them. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  his  pictures  at  the  Grafton 
Galleries  shocked  a  great  many  nice,  well-meaning 
people,  because  of  their  apparent  violence,  their 
strident  colour,  their  headstrong  drawing,  and  also 
because  Van  Gogh  did  not  care  a  pennyworth 
of  paint  about  the  drawing-room  convention. 
Cezanne  and  Gauguin,  though  revolutionists,  were 
aristocrats  in  painting.  Van  Gogh  was  a  dema- 
gogue. He  painted  for  the  people  long  before  it 
became  the  fashion  to  patronise  the  people.  He 
was  a  pioneer,  and  I  do  not  think  that  Meier-Graefe 
exaggerates  much  when  he  says:  "He  was  the  real 
Father  of  the  present  movement  in  modern  art." 
Let  me  describe  the  effect  of  two  of  Van  Gogh's 
pictures  upon  two  people.  A  Dutch  girl,  of  the 
peasant  class,  standing  before  his  portrait  called  "A 
Seaman's  Mother,"  frowned,  bit  her  lip,  and  said: 
"I  am  ashamed  to  think  that  this  ugly,  this  horrid, 
ugly  picture  was  painted  by  a  countryman  of 
mine."  I  made  no  comment.  You  may  lead  a 
horse  to  the  water:  you  cannot  make  it  drink.  I 
waited,  watching  the  Dutch  girl.  The  interesting 
fact  was  that  she  did  not  go  away.  People  may  be 
affronted  by  a  new  thing,  but  it  does  not  follow 
that  they  desire  to  escape  its  message.  Presently 
the  Dutch  girl  said:  "A  lot  of  sailors'  mothers  are 
like  this.     They  would   like  to  see   this   portrait 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  145 

hanging  in  a  foreign  cafe  when  they  come  off  the  sea. 
It  would  remind  them  of  home.    Am  I  right  ?" 
"That,    I   imagine,   was  Van   Gogh's  intention   in 
painting  it,"  I  answered. 

An  Englishwoman  of  fashion  stood  an  instant 
before  Van  Gogh's  "Sunflowers." 
"I  hate  it,"  she  said,  as  she  swept  away.  "I  detest 
sunflowers,  and  this  picture  gives  me  the  very 
sensation  that  I  dislike  so  much." 
"That,"  murmured  her  companion,  "is  precisely 
what  Van  Gogh  wished  to  do." 
He  lifted  the  lid  of  Pandora's  box;  he  released 
Freedom,  in  a  hundred  rough  and  rude  manifesta- 
tions. He  shook  us  out  of  our  complacency;  he 
proclaimed  that  Art  is  untamed  and  ready  for  all; 
he  showed  us  the  significance  of  what  had  seemed 
trivial — -a  dish  of  fruit,  a  cane  chair  in  an  empty 
room,  a  street  in  repair.  He  painted  violently 
because  his  intensity  would  not  allow  him  to  paint 
gently.  Quality,  finish,  delicacy,  knew  him  not. 
He  had  no  time  for  artistic  nuances.  Some  of  his 
pictures  are  wild  and  whirring.  He  hardly  seems 
able  to  control  the  fury  of  his  brush;  but  in  such 
landscapes  as  "The  Fields"  and  "Rain  Effect"  he 
takes  his  place  in  the  very  front  rank  of  modem 
artists.  Indeed,  no  one  has  expressed  so  vividly 
and  with  such  a  passion  of  feeling,  the  lie  and 
weight  of  the  land  and  the  effect  of  strident  rain 
on  bare  fields. 

In  his  brief,  fierce  productive  period  he  would 
paint  four  canvases  a  week,  and  when  he  had 
expressed  himself  he  cared  as  little  as  Cezanne  about 


T-».w,v,vv,>,.t^.^,..S.,.vv^.,^,,,t^^^..,_...      .^^     ,_,  _      ._ L^^ 


146  Art  and  I 

the  fate  of  his  pictures.  The  pure,  kindly  mind 
of  the  man  is  revealed  in  the  book  called  "Letters 
of  a  Post  Impressionist,"  by  Vincent  Van  Gogh, 
and  in  other  of  his  Letters.  In  one  of  them  he  says: 
"I  always  think  that  the  best  way  to  know  God  is 
to  love  many  things.  Love  a  friend,  a  wife,  some- 
thing, whatever  you  like,  you  will  be  in  the  right 
way  to  know  more  about  it,  that  is  what  I  say  to 
myself." 

Not  until  the  age  of  30  did  he  find  his  vocation. 
Before  that  he  was  employed  at  Goupils',  the  art 
dealers,  in  London,  Paris  and  The  Hague;  he 
taught  school  in  England;  then  the  missionary 
fervour  seized  him;  he  preached  to  the  miners  in 
Belgium;  he  studied  theology;  and  all  the  while 
he  was  dreaming  about  drawing  and  painting. 
Eventually,  he  entered  the  studio  of  Mauve,  a  dis- 
tant relative;  then  to  the  Antwerp  Academy,  and 
finally  he  settled  at  Aries,  where,  as  I  have  said, 
within  two  years  he  produced  three-fifths  of  his  pic- 
tures, urged  by  the  frenzy  of  creation  that  possessed 
him.  When  he  could  not  get  out  to  paint  he  would 
make  pictorial  interpretations  of  the  work  of 
painters  he  admired.  He  had  to  produce;  he  had 
to  create.  Often  he  painted  his  own  portrait — 
his  stiff,  red  hair,  his  rugged  flesh,  his  deep  green 
eyes.  His  quarrel  with  Gauguin,  his  attack  upon 
him  was  of  the  moment,  a  frenzy,  arising,  prob- 
ably, from  a  sunstroke  caught  while  painting  bare- 
headed under  the  burning  sun.  In  penance  he  cut 
off  his  ear.     Then,  of  his  own  will,  he  entered  an 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  147 

asylum.      His  end   was  tragic.      He  shot  himself. 
Alas,  poor  Vincent! 

Holland  is  deeply  interested  in  Vincent  Van  Gogh. 
When  I  was  last  in  Amsterdam  I  strolled  to  the 
rear  of  the  Ryks  Museum,  hoping  to  find  some  Van 
Goghs  in  the  modern  department.  There  was  a 
roomful  of  them — landscapes,  startling  in  their 
vivid  reality;  figures,  uncannily  alive;  interiors,  so 
simply  realistic  that  one  could  almost  walk  into 
them;  and  a  group  of  those  wonderful  dishes  of 
fruit,  swelling,  huge,  seeming  to  hold  within  them- 
selves all  the  ripeness  and  richness  of  harvest.  I 
know  not  whether  Cezanne  or  Van  Gogh  was  the 
inventor  of  these  colossal,  yet  small,  still-life  pieces 
that  have  so  taken  the  fancy  of  the  younger  artists 
of  today.  Everybody  is  doing  them  now. 
I  stayed  most  of  the  afternoon  in  that  Van  Gogh 
room.  I  sat  in  the  window  seat  watching  the 
Dutchmen  studying  the  work  of  their  great  coun- 
tryman— the  elders  thoughtful,  the  younger  ones 
animated  and  gesticulatory.  And  I  reflected  on  the 
great  contribution  to  art  of  this  little  country — 
Rembrandt,  Hals,  Ruysdael,  Vermeer,  the  Marises. 
Then,  when  there  was  a  danger  of  the  convention 
becoming  formalised  this  vivid,  violent  Van  Gogh 
breaks  in  and  makes  his  countrymen,  and  the  world, 
revalue  their  art  convictions  and  rethink  their 
thoughts. 


7.    MATISSE 

I  VISITED  a  roomful  of  drawings,  sculpture, 
and  paintings.  They  were  odd,  uncommon, 
and  interesting,  abstract  expressions,  flaming  colour, 
with  occasional  distortions.  The  artist  belongs  to 
The  Art  of  Tomorrow  School.  When  I  had  made 
the  round  of  the  exhibits,  and  was  preparing  to 
depart,  the  Proprietor  of  this  Advanced  Gallery 
approached  me,  and  said,  "Well?" 
"Very  interesting,"  I  answered,  adding,  as  I 
stepped  into  the  elevator,  "Why  don't  you  have  a 
Matisse  exhibition?" 

The  Proprietor  replied,  "I  wish  I  could,"  and  as  he 
spoke  he  looked  at  me  enigmatically. 
I  knew  precisely  what  that  look  meant:  it  meant 
"I  wish  I  could  show  a  group  of  Matisse's  best 
things.  He  is  the  originator  of  this  affront  to  the 
orthodox.  The  man  whose  works  I  am  showing 
is,  although  talented,  only  a  follower.  I  am  per- 
fectly aware  of  that,  and  also  that  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  such  followers,  perhaps  thousands,  scattered 
throughout  the  world." 

Since  that  look,  and  my  interpretation  of  it,  I  have 
been  thinking  about  Henry  Matisse.  What  a  curious 
position  he  holds  In  the  world  of  art.  No  one  is 
so  reviled  and  revered.  He  has  had  the  extremes 
of  praise  and  blame;  he  has  been  insulted  and 
148 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  149 

idolised.  Academies  and  art  schools  treat  him  as 
an  object  of  distaste  or  of  laughter;  but  "les 
Teunes"  (a  section  of  them)  have  crowned  him 
"Chef  des  Fauves,"  and  I  suppose  that  among 
the  advanced  wing  no  living  artist  has  so  man)^  fol- 
lowers as  Henry  Matisse,  King  of  the  Wild  Men, 
or  the  Wild  Beasts.  Fauves  is  hardly  translatable. 
Cezanne,  Gauguin,  Van  Gogh,  Picasso,  and 
Matisse — these  are  the  men  who  are  dictating  the 
procedure  of  those  who  are  working  in  one  of  the 
most  salient  of  the  Art  of  Tomorrow  groups.  And 
I  am  beginning  to  think  that  Georges  Seurat  also 
had  a  hand  in  it;  but  he  was  certainly  not  a  Fauve. 
I  have  heard  a  Professor  of  Painting  in  London 
describe  the  works  of  Matisse  as  an  insult  to  his 
intelligence,  and  Kenyon  Cox  said  something  worse 
about  him.  A  Royal  Academician  whom  I  escorted 
to  a  collection  of  paintings  by  Matisse  in  Paris  was 
so  indignant  that  he  refused  to  remain  in  the  house, 
and  an  American  lady  describing  a  Matisse  at  the 
Paris  Independent  Exhibition  said,  "Nobody  would 
believe  it,  my  dear,  who  hadn't  seen  it." 
This,  of  course,  is  healthy  and  invigorating.  In- 
diiference  is  the  chief  enemy  of  art.  Indifference 
is  the  attitude  of  many  to  most  of  the  works  in 
current  official  picture  exhibitions.  But  no  one  is 
indifferent  to  Matisse.  He  is  a  challenge.  You 
are  extremely  interested  in  him  or  extremely  cross 
with  him.  He  is  original.  He  startles  the  eyes. 
His  pictures  are  never  representations  of  objects; 
they  are  abstract  expressions  of  what  he  feels,  not 
what  he  sees.    He  does  not  paint  from  the  model ;  he 


150  Art  and  I 

memorises  what  he  has  seen.  To  quote  his  own 
words:  "I  only  make  studies  from  models;  not  to 
use  in  a  picture,  to  strengthen  my  knowledge." 
He  is  the  apostle  of  the  attempt  to  recapture  the 
childlike  vision,  and  dull,  unkind  people  say  that 
any  intelligent  child  with  a  box  of  colours  could 
produce  his  pictures.  Such  remarks  show  an 
abysmal  ignorance  of  art,  and  of  the  trend  of  the 
artistic  temperament. 

Matisse's  pictures  are  the  result  of  pure  reason; 
they  are  a  search  for  the  elemental  significance  of 
things,  and  his  violent  but  glorious  colours,  his  dis- 
tortions, his  seemingly  harsh  contrasts,  his  apparent 
uglinesses,  are  the  demonstration  of  long  and  sus- 
tained thought.  The  preparation  is  arduous,  the 
painting  itself  is  done  quickly  in  a  flash  of  emotion, 
a  summary  record  of  essentials  minus  all  the 
decorative  unessentials  so  pleasing  and  comforting 
to  the  normal  eye.  I  do  not  blame  the  normal  eye 
for  not  liking  his  pictures  and  sculptures.  To  ap- 
preciate them  art  education  is  necessary,  and  sym- 
pathy, and  a  readiness  to  admit  that  apparent  ugli- 
ness may  be  essential  beauty  in  a  cloak  of  strange- 
ness. 

You  will  find  his  artistic  statement  in  the  article  he 
wrote  for  the  Revue  des  Arts  under  the  title 
"Notes  of  a  Painter,"  by  Henri  Matisse,  Here  are 
a  few  extracts:  "That  which  I  pursue  above  all  else 
is  Expression.  ...  I  condense  the  signification  of 
the  body  by  looking  for  the  essential  lines.  .  .  . 
I  dream  of  an  art  of  equilibrium,  of  purity,  of 
tranquillity." 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  151 

If  Matisse  keeps  a  Praise  and  Blame  ledger  con- 
taining extracts  from  his  critics,  he  should  derive 
considerable  satisfaction  from  the  commendations 
on  the  Praise  side,  which  go  far  to  balance  the 
barks  and  bites  on  the  Blame  side.  There  was  the 
letter  that  Mr.  Bernhard  Berenson  wrote  to  The 
Nation,  a  letter  of  courteous  and  modest  apprecia- 
tion of  the  art  of  Matisse,  an  art  that  must  be 
alien  to  all  his  standards.  "We  Europeans,"  said 
Mr.  Berenson,  "are  so  easilj''  frightened  by  the 
slightest  divergence  from  the  habitual."  And  Ma- 
tisse must  have  been  pleased,  If  a  little  astonished, 
when  an  American  critic  wrote,  "What  is  the 
meaning  of  that  deathless  passion  that  has  come  to 
flower  in  the  sublime  art  of  Rodin  and  Matisse?" 
Pleased,  too,  must  he  have  been  when  he  opened  a 
new  number  of  The  Biirlingtoti  Maffazi?ie  and 
found  in  that  staid  periodical  an  important  review 
of  his  exhibition  at  the  Leicester  Galleries,  accom- 
panied bj^  a  page  of  vital  illustrations,  and  a  state- 
ment contrasting  the  quality  of  most  work  on  view 
in  London  with  the  Matisse  "penetration,  vigour, 
and  freshness  so  vividly  displayed  in  his  exhibition." 
And  a  short  while  ago  The  Times  of  London,  in  an 
article  on  "Epatism,"  asserted  that  few  of  the  mas- 
ters have  equalled  Matisse  in  technical  knowledge 
of  colour.  I  mention  these  testimonies  because  even 
today  there  are  many  who  wilt  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  the  name  of  Henri  Matisse. 
To  me  he  is  a  painter  of  singular  interest  and 
stimulation.  I  accepted  him  on  sight  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  ask  of  a  painter  not  that  he  should 


152  Art  and  I 

paint  what  I  like,  but  what  he  likes,  I  admit  that 
he  startled  me.  Who  would  rather  not  be  startled 
than  bored  ?  He  opened  avenues  of  freedom ;  he 
pointed  the  way  to  amazing  possibilities  of  line  and 
colour  and  design ;  in  his  dashing,  vivid  way  he 
pushed  the  exploration  of  synthesis  farther,  much 
farther  than  the  learned  and  laborious  experiments 
of  the  great  Cezanne.  He  is  a  Gay  Lancer. 
Cezanne  is  a  Heavy  Dragoon.  ' 
I  desire  to  be  candid  so  I  will  say  that  when 
Henri  Matisse  first  broke  upon  the  Anglo-Saxon 
world  at  the  famous  Post-Impressionist  exhibition  in 
the  Grafton  Galleries,  the  effect  upon  two-thirds  of 
the  British  art  world  was  appalling,  I  was  among 
the  one-third,  and  wrote  a  book  about  him  and 
Cezanne,  Gauguin,  and  Van  Gogh.  My  interest  in 
Matisse  has  never  ceased.  Everything  he  does,  even 
if  it  hurts,  is  significant.  Almost  all  wall  decora- 
tions have  been  dull  since  I  saw  his  vast  panels  of 
"La  Danse"  and  "La  Musique,"  red,  green,  and 
blue  splashes  of  decorative  rhythm  and  movement 
at  the  French  Autumn  Salon  of  1911;  and  it  was 
in  that  year  that  I  spent  evening  after  evening  at 
the  house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Michel  Stein  in  the 
Rue  Madame,  Paris.  She  was  an  omnivorous  Ma- 
tisse collector.  His  works  covered  the  walls  of  the 
vast  studio,  and  on  Saturday  evenings  young  Paris 
flocked  there  to  look  and  whisper,  Mrs,  Stein  sat 
in  a  high  chair  on  a  dais,  tranquil  as  a  Buddha,  In 
Matisse  she  found  rest  and  fulfilment.  She  did 
not  argue;  she  did  not  talk.     His  pictures  were  on 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  153 

the  walls.  There  was  nothing  to  discuss.  His 
visitors  could  stay  or  go,  as  the.v  liked. 
New  York  has  had  glimpses  of  Matisse.  The 
Montross  Galleries  held  an  exhibition  some  years 
ago,  and  he  was  one  of  the  New  Men  introduced, 
with  fervour  and  understanding  by  Mr.  Alfred 
Stieglitz  at  291  Fifth  Avenue.  Last  autumn,  hav- 
ing seen  nothing  by  Matisse  for  a  long  time,  I 
strolled  in  one  afternoon  to  the  De  Zayas  Gallery, 
attracted  by  the  announcement  of  paintings  by 
Courbet,  Manet,  Degas,  Renoir,  Cezanne,  Seurat, 
and  Matisse. 

There  were  six  pictures  by  Matisse — "A  Room," 
"Bathers,"  "Landscape,"  "Music,"  "Apples," 
"Women  and  Roses."  It  is  impossible  to  describe 
in  words  the  effect  on  the  right  kind  of  observer 
of  these  works  which  looked  so  unimportant,  yet 
which  had  such  a  potency  of  appeal.  They  were 
shorn  of  all  adventitious  aids;  they  told  the  bare 
truth ;  they  spoke  as  a  melody  speaks. 
And  but  the  other  day  I  saw  an  immense  flower  pic- 
ture by  Matisse  just  arrived  from  Paris.  It  is  a  pic- 
ture of  joy.  Delicate  joy  in  the  colour,  joy  in  the 
delicate  design,  a  pattern  ambling  like  a  flower,  the 
artist  seems  to  be  saying — "One  must  know  what 
one  wants.  I  wanted  to  express  what  I  feel  about 
these  random  flowers." 

His  followers  are  many.  Some  of  them  would 
have  been  wiser  to  found  themselves  on  Raphael. 
They  forget,  perhaps  they  do  not  know,  that 
Matisse  went  through  the  mill.  He  was  a  pupil 
of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts;  from  1895  to  1899 


154  ^rt  ^nd  I 

he  painted  on  conventional  lines;  and  for  years  he 
made  copies  in  the  Louvre  for  the  government.  Per- 
haps it  was  in  protest  against  that  drudgery  that 
he  tore  himself  away  from  the  orthodox  school,  to 
Cezanne,  to  the  early  Italians,  to  the  Persians,  to 
the  elementalism  of  the  African  Negroes  and  the 
Peruvian  and  Mexican  Indians,  to  anything  that 
would  free  the  vision  of  the  "fresh,  healthy,  robust, 
blonde"  entity  called  Henri  Matisse,  who  affronts 
the  many  and  intrigues  the  few. 
By  the  way,  "epatism,"  a  portmanteau  word, 
deduced  from  "epater  le  bourgeois,"  has  been  defined 
as  "an  affront  with  a  purpose." 


8.    A  MASTER  AND  OTHERS 

AT  the  exhibition  of  The  Society  of  Inde- 
pendent Artists  in  New  York  I  met  the 
usual  Exasperated  Woman.  She  found  some  of  the 
one  thousand  and  more  exhibits  vulgar,  childish,  an 
insult  to  her  mentalit}',  defiant  of  the  canons  of 
the  true,  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  so  on.  I 
listened  patiently,  refrained  from  saying  to  her, 
"Then,  madam,  why  do  you  come  here?  Why 
don't  you  stay  at  home?"  But,  after  awhile,  when 
she  had  repeated  two  or  three  times  that  she  knew 
what  she  liked,  and  that  she  did  not  like  the  kind 
of  pictures  exposed  by  the  Independent  Artists,  I 
said  to  her:  "I  cannot  understand  why  art  is  made 
the  victim  of  anger  and  vituperation.  Other  expres- 
sions of  the  ingenuity  and  taste  of  the  twentieth 
century  go  scatheless.  Take  Millinery  (she  was 
wearing  an  abominable  hat  that  positively  hurt  me 
to  look  at) ;  why,  the  shop  windows  of  New  York, 
and  I  dare  say  Chicago,  are  full  of  atrocious 
examples  of  hatwear,  but  nobody  ever  starts  an  out- 
cry against  the  vulgarity  of  hats.  Nobody  says  that 
they  are  an  insult  to  the  intelligence.  Why  should 
not  the  Artist  be  allowed  to  experiment  as  well  as 
the  Milliner?  Why  do  you  and  your  kind  insist 
that  art  stopped  short  with  Raphael  or  at  the  cul- 
tivated court  of  the  Empress  Josephine?  Why  is 
155 


1^6  Art  and  I 

the  artist  not  allowed  to  seek  new  avenues  of  expres- 
sion like — like  the  Milliners?" 

"Art  is  art,  and  Millinery  is  milliner}-,"  said  my 
lady. 

"True,  but  each,  after  all,  is  but  an  expression  of 
something  seen  and  felt.     If  you  permit  heterodox 
hats,  wh)^  net  allow  heterodox  pictures?" 
"There's  such  a  thing  as  fashion,"  she  began. 
I  saluted  and  left  her. 

Personally  I  found  those  pictures  on  the  walls  of 
the  roof  garden  of  the  Waldorf-Astoria,  sans  jury, 
sans  hanging  committee,  entertaining  and  instruc- 
tive. The  dull  ones,  the  silly  ones,  I  passed  by,  as 
I  close  a  dull  or  silly  book. 

I  was  much  attracted  by  the  pictures,  a  develop- 
ment of  Cubism,  that  express  abstract  ideas  in 
geometrical  forms  and  vivid  colours.  Two  of  the 
best  were  "Noise  Number  5"  and  "Sound  Num- 
ber 5."  How  much  more  interesting  it  would  be 
to  have  these  pictures  hanging  on  one's  walls  (they 
would  make  admirable  decorations  foi  a  large  Play 
Room)  than  inferior  Barbizon  smudges  or  third- 
rate  imitations  of  the  eighteenth  century  por- 
traitists. Equally  interesting  were  "Movement," 
and  "Mozart."  This  musical  abstraction  suggests 
to  me,  curiously  and  subtly,  a  Mozart  symphony. 
And  I  found  much  to  interest  me  in  the  M  room 
(the  exhibits  are  hung  alphabetically  according  to 
names).  It  was  in  the  M  room  that,  on  my  first 
visit,  a  remarkable  art  adventure  befell  me,  w^hich 
did  not  lose  its  savour.  I  found  that  the  thrill  was 
repeated  each  time  I  revisit  the  M  room. 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  157 

On  my  visit  I  began  at  A,  and  as  you  can  imagine, 
by  the  time  I  reached  M  that  I  was,  as  my  nephew 
would  express  it,  rather  "fed  up"  with  pictures. 
Something  very  special  was  needed  to  stir  me.  In 
the  M  room  suddenly  I  made  an  exclamation.  The 
exact  words  were,  I  believe,  "Hello,  what's  this?" 
Before  me  was  a  tall  portrait  of  a  tall,  dark  girl, 
with  long  black  hair;  not  the  kind  of  portrait  that 
other  artists  are  painting.  At  once  I  said  to  my- 
self: "This  is  synthesis:  this  is  the  way  the  Mod- 
ernists are  tn'ing  to  express  themselves :  this  is  what 
they  would  do  if  they  had  the  skill.  If  there  were 
nothing  else  in  the  rooms  but  this  swift  summary, 
this  delightful  decoration,  this  delicate  and  gleam- 
ing harmony  in  green  and  black,  the  exhibition  of 
the  Independent  Society  would  be  justified.  I  was 
so  excited  about  it  that  I  looked  around  for  some- 
one to  share  my  joy.  Mr.  Walter  Pach,  the  treas- 
urer of  the  societ}',  was  passing,  and  I  called  out 
to  him,  "What's  this?" 

"That's  our  Matisse,"  he  answered  gaily.  "Isn't  it 
fine?  There's  another  by  him  facing  it." 
I  turned,  and  cried  aloud  with  pleasure,  for  there 
was  a  still  life,  compact  of  the  most  delicious  colour, 
so  frank  and  joyous  as  to  justify  Mr.  Berenson's 
dictum  that  Matisse  is  one  of  the  greatest  colourists 
of  the  world.  It  is  amusing,  too,  very  amusing. 
Matisse  has  treated  a  dish  of  apples  as  if  it  were  a 
hat  or  a  coat;  he  has  hung  it  upon  a  peg  on  the 
wall.  And  it  looks  quite  natural — this  dish  of 
ruddy  and  golden  apples,  so  large,  so  round — exud- 
ing sunshine  and  fertility,  so  lovely  in  colour.    They 


158  Art  and  I 

shine  out  from  a  black  background,  merging  at  the 
right  lower  corner  into  a  glow  of  golden  red  and 
j^ellow.  These  tvro  pictures,  the  "Portrait  of  a 
Spanish  Girl"  and  "Still  Life,  Apples,"  are  owned 
by  Mr.  John  Quinn,  who  possesses  the  best  collec- 
tion of  modernist  pictures  in  America,  perhaps  in  the 
world. 

I  tore  myself  from  the  M  room,  and  proceeded  on 
toward  Y  (Keechi  Yamazoe)  and  Z  (F.  Zirn- 
bauer)  ;  then  I  seated  mj^self  in  the  Lounge  for  a 
thorough  examination  of  the  catalogue.  That  done, 
I  picked  up,  carelessly,  a  copy  of  the  New  York 
Times  and  in  it  I  found  a  marked  article  by  Wal- 
ter Duranty  explaining  the  methods  of  the  Bol- 
sheviki  in  Russia  toward  art.  What  do  you  think 
of  this? 

During  the  first  year  of  the  revolution  every  Rus- 
sian artist  became  a  Futurist  (I  may  remark  that 
Matisse  is  not  a  Futurist;  he  is  a  Classicist  with  a 
complete  understanding  that  he  is  also  a  Free 
Man ) .  Colour  rioted  when  the  Bolsheviki  assumed 
power.  Walls,  doors,  palings,  became  a  blaze  of 
colour  and  inchoate  design.  Old-fashioned  painters 
were  suspect.  To  be  a  Futurist  implied  that  a 
Russian  was  an  ardent  revolutionist.  Art  became 
popular.  Portraits  of  the  Bolshevist  leaders  were 
wanted  for  tov/ns  and  villages  throughout  the 
country.  But  the  authorities  soon  found  that  the 
average  Moujik  needed  a  likeness,  not  a  Futurist 
decoration.  So  the  old-fashioned  painters  were 
called  upon,  released  from  cells:  all  the  men  were 
sent  for  who  could  make  a  man  look  like  a  man, 


rf./,:^**w^rr..||||  iAa*\*mmmtt\vmmmrmr-r~^^-- — 1 '  •* 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  159 

not  like  an  exploding  firework.  That  was  the  hey- 
day of  the  orthodox  painters:  they  were  in  quick 
and  constant  demand. 

The  Bolsheviki  encourage  art.  Frequent  exhibi- 
tions are  held,  which  contain  about  1000  pictures 
(like  the  Independent  Society).  There  the  re- 
semblance ends,  for  the  Bolshevist  government  buys 
300  of  the  1000  for  distribution  throughout  the 
country-.  The  700  remaining  are  burnt  by  order. 
Recently,  owing  to  the  shortage  of  canvases,  the 
government  has  cancelled  the  burning  ukase ;  but  the 
700  are  ordered  to  erase  their  pictures  and  paint 
something  better  on  the  canvas.  This  system  might 
serve  if  the  judgment  of  those  who  select  the  300 
best  were  infallible.  It  is  not.  Juries  never  have 
vision.  Had  this  system  obtained  nearer  home  the 
early  works  of  Courbet,  Manet,  Monet,  Degas, 
Renoir,  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  and  Matisse  would 
have  been  destroyed. 

Refreshed  and  amused,  I  began  another  peregrina- 
tion of  the  Independent  show,  working  this  time 
from  Z  to  A.  I  passed  through  room  after  room, 
pausing  here,  smiling  there,  making  a  mental  note 
of  the  pictures  I  should  preserve  and  those  I  should 
burn;  and  all  the  while  wondering,  subconsciously, 
if  a  second  sight  of  the  Matisses  would  repeat  the 
exhilaration  I  had  received  at  the  first  glance. 
At  last  I  came  to  Room  M.  There  they  were — 
that  adorable  portrait  of  a  girl,  that  delightful  dish 
of  apples.  I  said  to  myself,  "This  exhibition  con- 
tains the  work  of  a  Master,  and  other  pictures." 


9.     PICASSO 

SOMEBODY  once  remarked  that  nobobdy  ever 
really  loves  a  Political  Economist.  And  no- 
body, I  imagine,  ever  really  loves  a  Cubist  picture. 
We  may  respect  Picasso,  as  we  respect  Euclid.  But 
we  shed  tears  over  Euclid,  not  with  him.  I  should 
not  like  to  meet  Picasso,  the  king  of  the  Cubists.  But 
perhaps  all  would  be  vi^ell  in  the  chilly  encounter. 
For  he  speaks  no  English,  and  his  French  has  a 
strong  Spanish  accent. 

Yet  Cubism  has  a  curious  attraction  for  me. 
Estranged  from  it  by  temperament,  yet  I  feel  rev- 
erent before  it,  as  before  the  higher  mathematics. 
The  understanding  of  Picasso's  most  advanced  work 
is  as  alien  and  enigmatic  to  the  normal  eye  as  are 
the  higher  mathematics  to  the  normal  mind.  The 
Cubist  picture  in  its  ultimate  expression  looks  like 
an  involved  geometrical  problem  plus  an  arrange- 
ment of  anatomical  specimens.  It  means  nothing 
to  the  untutored  eye ;  it  is  the  image  not  of  a  thing 
seen,  but  of  a  thought;  and  it  is  only  when  the 
abstract  Cubist  drops  to  a  lower  plane,  and  employs 
in  his  design  some  semblance  of  representation,  such 
as  a  "Nude  Descending  a  Staircase"  or  "A  Man  on 
a  Balcony,"  that  he  becomes  understandable  of  the 
Man  in  the  Street.  This  is  temporising  with  the 
Philistine. 

1 60 


lr<t'^r^■*■'■■'^^■^r'imft.■i..i.A^>ir^:t>>i^:A,A^ 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  i6i 

In  pure  Cubism  a  subject  may  lurk  in  the  stiff  lines 
and  smooth,  irregular  planes,  but  it  does  not  emerge 
until  a  fellow  Cubist  indicates  the  whereabouts  of 
the  subject.  Picabia,  one  of  the  confraternity,  but 
a  lesser  man  than  Picasso,  wrote  thus  in  a  brief 
essay  in  Stieglitz's  "291":  "In  my  work  the  subjec- 
tive expression  is  the  title,  the  painting  the  object." 
At  the  foot  of  his  essay  is  a  design.  It  looks  like — 
what  shall  I  say — an  electrical  machine?  The  title 
is  obligingly  printed  under  it — "Tennis  Player 
Serving."  And  I  am  familiar  with  a  picture  by 
Picabia,  a  curious  and  interesting  arrangement  of 
lines,  angles,  and  planes.  He  calls  it  "Star  Dancer 
on  Board  a  Transatlantic  Steamer":  he  might  have 
called  it  anything  under  the  sun. 
The  title  is  always  the  drawback  to  advanced  Cubist 
art.  Without  any  title  my  imagination  takes  an 
austere  pleasure  in  considering  these  severe  arrange- 
ments of  lines  and  angles,  but  when  I  am  given  the 
title  my  pleasure  goes.  I  say,  "This  is  not  a  Ten- 
nis Player,  Serving";  and  if  the  artist  replies,  "My 
intention  was  to  suggest  a  'Tennis  Player,  Serv- 
ing'," then  I  answer,  "That  may  be,  but  you  have 
not  conveyed  your  intention  to  me."  If  he  called 
his  designs  Expression  A,  or  Abstraction  X,  I  should 
go  on  my  way  rejoicing  and  wondering,  and  no 
more  curious  about  knowing  what  they  mean  than  I 
am  about  the  meaning  of  a  Chinese  plate  or  a  Persian 
rug.  These  things  give  me  more  pleasure  because 
they  have  colour  and  a  recognisable  pattern.  Some 
Cubist  pictures  are  brightly  coloured,  but  Picasso,  in 


1 62  Art  and  I 

his  highest  manifestations,  indulges  himself  in  tone, 
not  colour — beautiful  tone. 

I  keep  a  portfolio  of  photographs  and  reproduc- 
tions which  is  labelled — "Pictures:  Pleasant  and  Un- 
pleasant." It  is  my  custom  to  show  them  to  my 
friends,  and  I  draw  their  particular  attentions  to  the 
six  Picassos.  I  do  this  because  I  am  quite  sure  that 
Pablo  Picasso  is  head  and  shoulders  above  all  the 
others.  We  may  like  or  dislike  Cubism,  but  it  is 
quite  certain  that  in  this  convention  of  making  a 
pattern  (with  a  profound  meaning  to  the  artist)  out 
of  lines,  angles,  and  planes  he  is  a  Master.  My 
friends  can  understand  Picasso's  "Wandering  Mu- 
sician," done  some  years  ago,  for  that  noble  and 
massive  design,  with  suggestions  of  Cubism  in  it,  is 
in  the  Cezanne  tradition;  so  is  his  brooding, 
weighty  portrait  of  Gertrude  Stein ;  but  when  they 
look  at  examples  of  Picasso,  the  pure  Cubist,  such  as 
his  "Spanish  Village"  and  his  portrait  of  "M.  Kahn- 
weiler,"  they  shake  their  heads  and  say,  "It's  be- 
yond me." 

Well,  what  kind  of  a  man  is  this  Pablo  Picasso?  I 
have  not  met  him,  but  a  friend  who  knows  him 
well  describes  him  as  a  stocky,  vital  man,  very 
alert,  and  very  intelligent.  He  is  a  Spaniard,  but 
France  has  adopted  him,  or  he  France.  He  went 
through  the  Madrid  Academy,  that  home  of  con- 
formity and  reactionism;  but  his  eyes  and  his  mind 
were  with  El  Greco  and  Goya,  the  two  Spaniards 
whose  influence  is  paramount  today.  At  17  he  is 
an  art  student  in  Paris,  studying  Puvis  de 
Chavannes.     That     influence     passed,     and     soon 


I.IIIJ  in  >IJM 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  163 

Cezanne  possessed  him,  as  the  Master  of  Aix  pos- 
sesses most  of  the  young  vital  artists  of  the  day. 
Picasso  capered  through  his  paces  like  a  colt  in  a 
meadow.  His  phases  were  many,  even  Impres- 
sionism and  Pointelism;  also  Gauguin.  His  style 
changed  with  the  seasons,  gradually  acquiring  the 
sculptural  form,  now  in  a  gamut  of  blue,  now  of 
red.  He  turned  to  the  study  of  Negro  sculpture, 
and  his  art  began  to  assume  a  geometrical  form — 
straight  lines,  swift  angles,  shining  planes  in  accord 
or  discord,  and  he  realised,  to  quote  Guillaume 
Apollinaire,  that  "Geometry  is  to  the  plastic  arts 
what  grammar  is  to  the  writer."  Picasso  stood  on 
the  top  of  the  icy  Cubic  pole. 

There  are  those  who  maintain  that  Cubism  is  im- 
plicit in  Cezanne;  that  he  opened  the  avenue, 
showed  the  road ;  then,  turning  away,  settled  down 
into  his  own  laborious,  wonderful  path.  Certain  it 
is  that  Cezanne  said — "Everything  in  nature  is 
modelled  on  the  lines  of  the  sphere,  the  cone,  and 
the  cylinder,  and  one  must  understand  how  to  paint 
these  simple  figures;  one  can  then  paint  any- 
thing .  .  .  Design  and  colour  are  not  dis- 
tinct .  .  .  When  the  colour  is  at  its  finest,  the 
form  also  attains  its  perfection."  And  we  find  M. 
Andre  Lhote  saying  recently,  "Cubism  may  be 
defined  as  the  systematic  exaltation  of  the  most  im- 
portant and  least  elucidated  peculiarities  of  the 
Cezannian  formula." 

I  warn  the  reader  that  the  literature  of  Cubism  is 
tough ;  but  so  is  the  literature  of  the  higher  math- 
ematics.   MM.  Gleizes  and  Metzinger,  the  French 


164  Art  and  I 

cubist-artist-writers,  have  written  on  the  subject 
with  French  clarity,  also  Guillaume  Apollinaire; 
and  in  English  we  have  Mr.  Arthur  Jerome  Eddy 
and  Mr.  Willard  Huntington  Wright.  These  I 
can  understand  fairly  well ;  but  Mme.  Gertrude 
Stein  (see  "Camera  Work,"  August,  1912)  baffles 
me;  neither  can  I  quite  follow  M.  Lhote  in  his 
descant  on  the  Fourth  Dimension,  and  his  explana- 
tion that  Cezanne  tried  to  express  "this  supple- 
mentary extra-geometrical  dimension"  by  means  of 
a  series  of  planes  like  the  steps  of  an  irregular  sur- 
face. Oh,  the  word  Cubism  is  due  to  our  friend, 
Matisse.  He  invented  it  in  Paris  in  1908,  in  deri- 
sion, after  seeing  a  picture  showing  a  cubical  rep- 
resentation of  buildings.  The  first  collection  of 
Cubist  pictures  was  shown  at  the  Salon  des  In- 
dependants  in  1911. 

Reproductions  of  four  of  Picasso's  paintings  are 
pinned  upon  the  wall  in  front  of  me  as  I  write. 
I.  His  magnificent  "Wandering  Acrobats"  in  his 
early  manner,  before  the  Cubist  theory  possessed 
him.  Anyone  can  understand  it;  ever3'one  must 
admire  it. 

n.  His  "Woman  with  Mandolin."  Cubism  has 
now  captured  him,  but  the  figure  is  there,  angular, 
allusively  geometrical,  but  plainly  visible. 
HI.  His  "Poet."  Cubism  is  now  controlling  him. 
The  hair  and  an  ear  of  the  Poet  are  just  discernible 
amidst  a  whirl  of  precise  Cubist  forms.  It  is  called 
"The  Poet,"  therefore  a  poet  and  his  imaginings 
must  lurk  within  the  design,  but  no  one  would 
guess  it  without  being  informed  of  the  title. 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  165 

IV.  His  "Figure"  from  the  Galerie  "L'Effort  Mo- 
derne"  (Leonce  Rosenburg),  the  centre  of  Cubism 
in  Paris.  This  is  pure  Cubism,  a  recent  effort  of 
Picasso's,  curious,  done  with  decision,  but  without 
any  meaning  to  the  lay  eye.  Art  has  become  a 
problem,  an  experiment  in  the  Fourth  Dimension. 
This  is  essential  Picasso.  Helpless  before  such  an 
abstract  design  as  this,  realising  that  the  end  was 
reached,  the  Neo-Cubists  and  the  Post-Cubists 
struggled  to  introduce  something  of  humanity, 
some  approach  to  representation  into  their  Cubist 
pictures.  Such  examples  are  to  be  found  in  every 
Independant  show.  But  Picasso  goes  on  in  his  own 
way — supreme,  inhuman,  unlovely. 
Why  bother,  asks  the  reader?  Why  not  let  this 
chilly,  geometrical  negation  of  beauty  pass  out  like 
the  other  isms  that  come  and  go,  flicker  and  fade — • 
Orphism,  Synchronism,  Futurism,  Vorticism?  Be- 
cause Cubism  is  based  on  something  permanent  that 
many  artists  and  others  through  the  ages  have 
gleaned  and  practised.  Read  "The  Diagonal," 
edited  by  Mr.  Jay  Hambridge,  stating  his  theory 
of  dynamic  symmetry;  attend  a  lecture  by  Mr. 
Claude  Bragdon  on  "Art  and  Mathematics," 
wherein  he  traces  the  geometrical  origin  of  such 
familiar  forms  of  ornament,  expressing  cosmic 
truths,  as  the  acanthus  and  lotos,  the  egg  and  dart, 
and  also  of  the  Greek  temples, 
Picasso  has  but  pushed  to  the  optical  limit  a  truth 
that  was  familiar  to  Plato  and  Diirer.  Did  not 
Paolo  Uccello  become  "more  needy  than  famous" 
because  he  "w^asted"  his  time  over  geometry  and 


1 66  Art  and  I 

perspective?  Today  the  influence  of  Picasso  is 
becoming  more  and  more  widespread.  A  thousand 
painters  are  using  Cubism,  as  a  means  not  as  an 
end.  Mathematics  has  again  entered  fully  into 
art.  It  is  a  check  to  emotion;  its  laws  are  invio- 
lable; it  links  us  up  with  the  practice  of  the  Greek 
and  Egyptian  masters.  Art  may  perish,  but  two 
and  two  will  remain  four.  Impressionism  points  to 
a  world  aspect.     Cubism  indicates  a  world  order. 


10.     QUALITY 

PASSAGE  in  an  art  article  by  Mr.  Royal 
^  ^  Cortissoz,  in  the  Tribune,  drew  my  eyes — 
"The  colourist  does  not  take  colour  as  he  finds  it.  He 
filters  it  through  his  genius,  and  the  result  is  what 
painters  call  'quality'." 

This  article  by  Mr.  Cortissoz  had  an  especial  in- 
terest for  me  because  clearly  we  had  been  engaged 
on  a  similar  art  adventure.  We  did  not  meet;  we 
have  never  met;  but  being  inquisitive  and  con- 
templative we  had  both  that  day  been  considering, 
comparing  and  contrasting  the  work  of  J.  Alden 
Weir  at  the  Century  Club,  and  Alfred  Wolmark 
at  the  Kevorkian  Galleries.  This  was  an  obvious 
thing  to  do,  as  Alden  Weir  rounds  up  an  epoch,  and 
Alfred  Wolmark  starts  forward  on  a  new  one. 
Other  artists  might  have  been  taken  as  exemplars, 
but  these  two  happened  to  be  presented  to  the  public 
in  the  same  week.  Mr.  Cortissoz  and  I  differ  a  little. 
He  approves  of  Alden  Weir,  and  rather  disapproves 
of  Alfred  Wolmark.  I  approve  of  them  both,  I  like 
them  both,  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  each 
gives  the  best  of  himself.  But  I  am  more  interested 
in  Wolmark  because  he  is  striding  out  on  a  new 
path,  and  is  treading  it  logically,  with  precision,  and 
with  gusto. 

Mr.  Cortissoz  likes  Alden  Weir's  tone  colour,  he 
167 


1 68  Art  and  I 

does  not  like  Wolmark's  raw  colour.  I  object,  of 
course,  to  the  word  raw.  Simple  colour  would  be 
exacter.  Wolmark's  colour  is  not  in  the  least  raw. 
There  is  as  much  quality  in  it  as  in  Alden  Weir's 
colour,  but  it  is  a  different  kind  of  quality,  and  it  has 
force  and  virility,  which  Alden  Weir's  colour  has 
not.  The  educated  eye  is  usually  shocked  by 
force  and  virility,  and  continues  to  be  disturbed  until 
custom  softens  the  estrangement. 
First  let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  this  subject  of  col- 
our. The  educated  eye  usually  recognises  and  judges 
colour,  not  as  it  may  be  seen  in  nature,  but  as  it  is 
seen  in  pictures  by  old  and  elder  masters.  But 
does  the  educated  man  or  woman  who,  by  the  very 
nature  of  his  education  is  subject  to  conformity, 
ever  realise  that  the  pictures  by  the  Old  Masters 
that  he  admires  so  much  are  not  the  pictures  that 
left  the  artists'  studios? 

Sir  John  Millais,  who  was  a  fine  painter,  in  his 
youth,  at  any  rate,  and  an  honest  man,  said  once 
that  Father  Time  is  the  best  Old  Master.  It  is 
Time,  including  the  fading  of  colours,  and  the  effects 
of  air  and  dirt,  that  gives  to  many  old  pictures  their 
consolatory  patine  and  their  air  of  harmonious  tone. 
This  old  masterly  look  is  extremely  popular,  and  it 
is  this  old  masterly  look  that  many  orthodox  modem 
painters,  who  have  been  educated  to  keep  well 
within  the  tradition,  and  who  have  no  desire  to 
depart  from  it,  copy,  or  rather  found  themselves 
upon.  Does  it  ever  occur  to  them  that  many  of 
the  Old  Masters  would  hardly  know  their  own 
pictures  if  they  could  see  them  as  they  look  today? 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  169 

There  are  written  statements  about  individual 
paintings,  which  now  enjoy  Time's  patine,  showing 
that  when  they  were  painted  they  were  bright  and 
vivid,  that  sometimes  even  they  were  examples  of 
what  Mr.  Cortissoz  calls  raw  colour.  My  con- 
tention is  that  many  modern  painters  have  founded 
their  performances  not  on  the  Old  Master  pictures 
as  they  looked  when  they  left  the  painter's  studio, 
but  on  the  look  that  Father  Time  has  imposed  upon 
them. 

Far  be  it  for  me  to  say  anything  against  quality  in 
painting.  I  am  quite  in  accord  with  Mr.  Cortissoz 
in  his  admiration  for  the  "gracious  harmony"  in 
the  works  of  Titian,  Velasquez  and  Vermeer,  to 
name  but  three,  but  I  do  suggest  that  Time  has 
had  something  to  do  with  that  harmony.  And  I 
also  suggest  that  such  modern  masters  as  Whistler 
and  Alfred  Stevens  set  themselves  to  acquire  that 
"gracious  harmony,"  and  being  men  of  genius  they 
were  able  to  succeed.  The  disadvantage  of  thus 
following  a  tradition  of  art,  and  not  going  direct 
to  nature,  is  that  lesser  men  fill  the  world  with  an 
enormous  number  of  pictures,  which  are  not  an 
expression  of  themselves,  but  a  repetition  of  a  tradi- 
tion in  painting  that  they  have  grown,  almost  im- 
perceptibly to  themselves,  to  adopt  as  the  right  way 
of  painting.  When  an  artist  breaks  away  from  this 
tradition  and  paints  a  picture  in  simple,  not  in 
raw  colour,  and  from  his  own  vision,  not  from  the 
memory  of  other  pictures,  as  Augustus  John  did  in 
"The  Way  Down  to  the  Sea,"  loaned  to  the  Metro- 
politan Museum,  the  educated  eye  is  startled  and 


170  Art  and  I 

affronted,  as  people  were  startled  and  affronted 
when  they  first  heard  Ibsen's  plays.  But  soon  the 
eyes  become  accustomed  to  the  new  vision.  It  is 
interesting  to  stand  before  "The  Way  Down  to  the 
Sea"  and  to  observe  how  people  are  being  gradually 
converted  and  conquered.  When  there  is  a  roomful 
of  such  pictures,  hung  on  white  walls,  many  people 
will  find  that  they  are  impatient  with  brown,  toned, 
conventional  pictures. 

Which  do  you  prefer — to  sit  in  a  stuffy  room 
gazing  at  things,  or  to  look  from  an  open  window  at 
life  and  colour?  Quality,  like  the  stars,  differs  in 
glor>^  There  is  one  quality  of  "the  thin  white 
fabric  thrown  over  an  Infanta's  rosy  farthingale," 
another  of  the  garments  of  Augustus  John's  statu- 
esque women,  and  another  in  Wolmark's  "Boats" 
or  "Model  Resting." 

Among  the  giants  J.  Alden  Weir  is  a  lesser  man; 
among  the  painters  of  average  stature  he  is  like  a 
figure  six  feet  two  inches  high  in  a  crowd.  I  have 
the  utmost  respect  for  his  memorial  exhibition  at  the 
Century  Club.  I  admire  the  sensitiveness  and 
delicacy  of  his  portraits  of  women  and  landscapes, 
and  I  am  quite  prepared  to  echo  Mr.  Cortissoz's 
enthusiasm  for  his  "silvery  exquisiteness"  and 
"tremulous  lightness,"  even  if  I  feel,  as  I  said  earlier, 
that  he  rounds  off  an  epoch,  and  that  my  interest 
in  his  work  is  perhaps  more  historical  than  artistic. 
This  kind  of  painting,  so  full  of  sensibility,  so  empty 
of  force,  so  conventional,  so  lacking  in  accent,  gesture 
or  wonder,  can  hardly  be  advanced  much  farther. 
I  admit  that  it  is  still  very  popular,  and  very  much 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  i^i 

admired,  and  if  I  were  to  rise  up  in  the  exhibition 
gallery  and  say,  "Go  to,  the  lily  has  been  over- 
painted,  the  gold  is  so  refined  that  it  is  all  quality 
and  no  substance,"  I  should  be  treated  as  a  voice 
crying  in  the  wilderness,  or  as  a  brawler.  When 
Mr.  Cortissoz  writing  of  Alden  Weir  says,  "Here 
is  the  true  colourist  using  colour  as  a  key  to  artistic 
loveliness,"  I  would  reply,  "We  are  overdone  with 
'artistic  loveliness,'  and  it  is  because  this  'artistic 
loveliness'  has  been  made  into  a  fetish,  and  because 
so  many  artists  repeat  and  repeat  this  studio  con- 
vention of  'artistic  loveliness,'  the  untrained  public, 
accustomed  to  the  colour  and  movement  of  the  great 
world,  has  fallen  into  the  way  of  regarding  the 
artist  as  an  odd,  fantastic,  and  unpractical  being 
pursuing  his  fading  dream  and  withdrawing  him- 
self more  and  more  from  actual  life." 
When  I  left  the  Alden  Weir  exhibition  and 
wandered  up  Fifth  Avenue  the  colour  and  movement 
formed  such  a  contrast  to  the  pictures  I  had  been 
looking  at:  they  were  so  enlivening  and  heartening 
that  I  understood  in  a  flash  the  Wolmark  point 
of  view  and  why  Mr.  Cortissoz  resents  his  stridency 
and  the  noise  of  his  colour.  Wolmark  is  a  citizen 
of  the  world,  not  of  the  studio. 
The  Alden  Weir  pictures  make  me  lower  my  voice ; 
they  would  sadden  me  were  I  not  a  philosopher. 
The  Wolmark  pictures  make  me  want  to  talk  and 
gesticulate ;  they  enliven  my  consciousness,  and  make 
me  eager  to  enjoy  the  avenue  of  colour  and  decora- 
tion that  Wolmark  is  exploring.  That  they  are 
not  in  the  tradition  does  not  trouble  me  at  all.  New 


172  Art  and  I 

traditions  are  forever  being  introduced,  and  forever 
being  acclimatised.  Who  resents  wireless  and  the 
airplane  because  they  are  not  in  the  tradition  of 
the  penny  post  and  the  locomotive? 
So  I  return  to  Wolmark  and  to  the  quotation  w^ith 
which  I  began  this  article — "The  colourist  does  not 
take  colour  as  he  finds  it.  He  filters  it  through  his 
genius,  and  the  result  is  what  painters  call 
'quality'." 

True.  And  that  is  precisely  what  Wolmark  does. 
But  the  filtering  process  is  his  own,  not  the  Alden 
Weir  tradition,  and  personally  I  find  the  Wolmark 
method  more  interesting  and  more  stimulating  than 
the  Weir. 

Surely  it  is  only  fair  to  judge  each  artist  by  his 
performance  and  not  by  the  way  he  conforms  or 
nonconforms  to  a  convention.  There  is  a  picture 
which  delights  me  more  and  more  each  time  I  see  it. 
This  is  "Devant  la  psyche,"  by  Manet.  This 
lovely  thing,  with  the  gay,  rippling  colour,  fresh  and 
unworried  as  a  spring  morning,  belongs  neither  to 
the  quality,  tone  convention  of  Alden  Weir,  nor  to 
the  quality,  colour  adventure  of  Alfred  Wolmark ;  it 
is  just  Manet,  the  quality  of  a  Manet.  Each  great 
artist  gives  us  his  own  vision  and  technique.  By 
these  we  should  judge  him,  by  these  alone. 

When  Alfred  Wolmark  was  in  New  York  pre- 
paring for  his  exhibition  he  asked  me  to  sit  to  him. 
At  first  I  refused.  Posing  for  a  portrait  is  not  one 
of  my  vanities.  I  weary  of  the  interminable  sittings, 
and   when    the   likeness   is  good    I    lament   that   I 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  173 

am  not  better-looking.    But  when  Alfred  Wolmark 
told  me  that  he  only  wanted  one  sitting,  that  he 
never  required  more  than  one  sitting,  I  consented. 
Here  is  the  story  of  that  sitting.      It  betrays  his 
method. 

First  came  a  preliminary  meeting  in  his  studio,  a 
gossip  over  tea.  I  was  conscious  that  he  was 
studying  me  carefully:  later  I  learned  that  he  was 
deciding  the  pose,  and  the  colour  and  pattern  of 
the  decorative  treatment  that  suited  and  com- 
plemented me. 

He  allowed  a  fortnight  to  elapse;  then  he  asked  me 
to  come  to  the  studio  one  day  as  early  as  I  could, 
and  to  sit  till  the  light  gave.  When  I  arrived  I 
found  that  he  had  made  six  rough  charcoal  sketches, 
each  the  size  that  the  portrait  was  to  be,  of  six 
different  positions  in  which  he  had  drawn  my 
obedient  body.  Finally  he  had  selected  one  of  them, 
and  there  it  was  pinned  on  the  easel  board.  The 
decorative  design  was  also  indicated.  The  irregular 
spaces  were  marked  in  charcoal  the  colours  they  were 
to  be — yellow,  green  and  blue.  He  kept  absolutely 
to  his  plan.  The  pose  and  the  colours  were  carried 
out  exactly  as  he  had  willed  them. 
He  makes  no  changes.  His  hand  completes  the 
picture  exactly  as  he  sees  it  in  his  mental  vision 
before  he  begins  to  paint.  He  does  not  use  a  palette; 
his  palette  is  a  primed  canvas  placed  flat  on  a  table; 
he  does  not  paint  in  pure  colour  as  some  think,  but 
the  effect  is  one  of  pure  colour.  He  employs  this 
method  in  all  his  pictures — first  a  mental  decision 
as  to  colour  and  design,  reached  only  after  long  re- 


**■'<'*'!>■»  I  «  '11  !■>   ■^■■Miai*i^MMifc>a^«iii-ii^«i^  ■■4i»ritf'M»'»g4ti:»Tl'v'»'yi<iiil>i>. 


174  ^^f  ^ftd  I 

flection,  then  a  quick  painting.  If  the  work  does  not 
progress  well,  if  he  is  dissatisfied  with  it,  he  stops 
and  takes  another  canvas.  He  never  alters  or  works 
over  a  picture.  Consequently  his  work  has  an 
extraordinary  air  of  freshness  and  spontaniety.  He 
considers  the  frame  part  of  the  picture,  a  carrying 
out  of  the  decorative  design,  so  each  of  his  frames 
is  painted  with  a  design  in  harmony  with  the 
picture. 

He  began  with  my  head,  first  the  hair,  then  the 
eyes,  then  the  collar  and  neck  and  the  salient  points 
of  the  body;  and  while  thus  engaged,  his  hand 
would  sweep  masses  of  flat  paint — )'ellow,  green, 
and  blue — over  the  decorative  spaces.  By  4  o'clock 
it  was  all  finished  except  the  hands.  For  them  I 
gave  him  another  hour's  sitting  on  the  following 
day.  It  is  not  my  place  to  say  anything  about  this 
portrait,  but  my  friends  tell  me  that  it  cheers  them. 
It  was  certainly  a  very  interesting  experience,  and 
when  the  exhibition  opened  I  was  much  entertained 
at  the  sight  of  myself  intrigued  into  being  a  Wol- 
mark  decoration,  and  at  the  comments  of  the 
orthodox. 


11.    TWO  PIONEERS 

AT  the  Private  View  of  the  Painter-Gravers  of 
America  I  had  a  rebuff.  This  has  happened 
so  often  that  I  accept  such  rebuffs  w^ith  equanimity. 
What  vi^as  the  rebuff?  Oh,  merely  that  I  took  a 
friend  up  to  something  I  admired  very  much  to  find 
that  he  did  not  share  my  enthusiasm.  I  should 
have  learned  by  experience.  People  do  not  like  to 
have  aesthetic  preferences  forced  upon  them. 
My  companion  and  I  had  quite  a  pleasant  row  over 
it  which  continued  because  presently  he  conveyed  me 
to  something  that  he  highly  admired,  but  which  did 
not  please  me.  Such  aesthetic  disputes  are  welcome. 
They  are  evidences  of  interest  and  mental  activity. 
Moreover,  we  may  both  be  right,  for  each  in- 
dividual seeks  the  aesthetic  stimulus  that  he  needs. 
My  mind  dwelt  that  evening  of  the  Private  View 
on  small  pictures — lyrics,  as  opposed  to  large  pic- 
tures— epics.  I  discovered,  too,  that  I  am  not  singu- 
lar in  liking  to  hymn  my  appreciations.  Two  artists 
with  whom  I  discoursed  were  dithyrambic  about 
two  artists  whose  works  New  York  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  (if  it  wanted  to  do  so)  during  that  week. 
I  listened  gladly  to  the  praises  of  John  Marin  and 
Walt  Kuhn  because  I  adore  enthusiasm,  when  it 
comes  from  fellow-artists,  and  because,  unlike  Pooh- 
Bah,  I  was  not  born  sneering. 
175 


g..i..  ■■■  ■«  .I.-         -T— — ^-I^^SI-g.;..^-^..  J^  ^.-ii.-  ■■■,...■,■- 'uri  ■r-.T-^-7-M.^.  >«— ,.»..r.,;..»~r,::~^-3i^ 


176  Art  and  I 

Next  day  I  visited  the  John  Marin  exhibition. 
He  is  true  artist.  There  is  nothing  of  the  painter, 
the  mere  maker  of  pictures  in  his  composition.  He 
paints  as  a  bird  sings,  because  he  likes  to  sing,  not 
for  listeners,  for  himself.  He  is  in  the  tradition  of 
Turner,  the  Turner  of  the  "delight  drawings,"  not 
of  the  huge,  competitive  canvases;  and  of  Brabazon, 
the  Sussex  squire,  vi'ho  painted  water  colours  all  his 
life  for  the  love  of  doing  them,  and  who,  at  three 
score  years  and  ten,  was  "discovered,"  became 
famous,  and  was  acclaimed  as  the  best  water  colour 
painter  England  has  had  since  Turner.  I  should 
like  to  see  an  exhibition  containing  10  of  Turner's 
best  water  colours,  10  Brabazons,  10  Winslow 
Homers,  10  Sargents,  10  Dodge  Macknights,  and 
10  John  Marins.  That  would  be  an  exhibition  of 
pure  art,  insight,  impulse  and  love  of  beauty  for 
beauty's  own  sake. 

I  think  it  will  be  agreed  that  John  Marin  has 
added  much  of  his  own  to  the  potentialities  of  water 
colour.  The  popular  word  in  art  today  is  the  word 
Abstract;  Marin  has  pushed  some  of  his  colour  im- 
pressions into  a  region  so  abstract  that  the  Man  in 
the  Street  shakes  his  head  and  says:  "They're 
beyond  me";  but  to  the  Connoisseur  they  are  de- 
lightful beyond  words.  I  do  not  say  that  the  Con- 
noisseur does  not  like  other  and  very  divergent  pic- 
tures as  well;  but  these  Marin  abstract  colour  im- 
pressions give  him  the  joy  that  Shelley,  in  his  most 
ethereal  passages,  passes  on.  They  promote  the 
rush  of  joy  one  has  when  suddenly  the  lark's  song 
breaks  out  above  a  sun-flickered  English  meadow. 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  177 

But  Marin  is  no  pedant  in  etherealism.  The  SO 
water  colours  he  exposed  at  the  Daniel  Gallery  may 
be  taken  as  representing  his  work  for  the  past  10 
years  and  as  showing  his  passage — how  shall  I 
express  it? — say,  from  sense  to  inspiration,  the  path 
Turner  trod,  the  path  all  true  artists  tread  who 
rely  upon  nature,  not  upon  the  work  of  other  men 
for  their  inspiration.  Nature,  in  her  wonderful  and 
inexhaustible  beauty,  must  lead  the  true  artist 
deeper  and  deeper,  and  higher  and  higher  into 
abstract  realms ;  as  he  watches  and  learns  more  and 
more  he  loses  form  in  colour,  he  desires  to  suggest 
rather  than  to  represent,  he  approaches  with  bared 
head,  and  brooding  joy,  the  ethereal  substance  of 
nature.  Marin's  "Mountain  Forms  No.  VI,"  and 
his  "Sea-Blue  Effect"  are  plain  to  anybody,  the 
forms  are  recognisable;  but  these  are  but  the  steps 
that  lead  him  to  the  magnificent  "Sunburst"  and 
the  abstract  loveliness  of  "A  Sea-Effect,  Deer 
Island,  Maine." 

I  admit  that  what  interests  me  especially  in  Marin 
is  that  he  has  the  courage  and  the  integrity  to  con- 
fine himself  to  explorations  in  water  colour,  which 
is  manifestly  the  work  to  which  he  is  called:  he 
has  kept  to  that  way,  he  has  fostered  his  particular 
talent  and  has  not  allowed  himself  to  be  tempted 
to  produce  mere  pictures  because  there  is  a  better 
market  for  mere  pictures.  Fashions,  schools  have 
not  drawn  him  from  his  own  path.  In  his  own  way 
he  is  as  characteristically  racial  in  vision  and  subject, 
as  were  Twachtman  and  Winslow  Homer,  Of 
French  extraction  his  family  has  been  settled  in 


~_^.^-.^..yrt^-<..yU.-^^S^ 


178  Art  and  I 

America  for  some  200  years.  Born  in  New  Jersey, 
he  studied  at  the  Pennsylvania  Academy,  and 
worked  awhile  in  Paris,  but  his  real  and  only  master 
is  nature.  She  is  his  strength  and  dictator,  as  she 
was  Turner's  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  and 
Brabazon's  always. 

John  Marin  has  freed  himself !  He  has  cast  off  the 
swathes  of  representation,  and  the  pull  of  Precedent 
and  academical  teaching.  Walt  Kuhn  has  not  yet 
quite  freed  himself,  but  he  has  breathed  freedom 
into  his  painting  impressions  of  Life  Among  the 
Indians,  actual  or  imagined.  He  is  a  decorator, 
his  colour  sings,  his  subjects  are  subordinated  to  the 
rhythm,  and  the  movement  and  colour  that  they  sug- 
gest to  him.  "Entirely  Surrounded  by  Indians" 
causes  the  spectator  no  anxiety  as  to  the  safety  of 
the  palefaces.  I  am  no  more  disturbed  by  their 
danger  than  I  am  by  the  woes  of  the  heroines  in 
the  Russian  Ballet.  This  picture  and  the  others  are 
decorations,  charming  decorations,  and  if  this  were 
an  artistic  nation,  which  of  course  it  is  not,  town 
halls  would  be  fighting  for  Walt  Kuhn's  decora- 
tions, and  ladies  would  be  anxiously  longing  for  a 
Marin  water  colour  as  a  basis  upon  which  to  dec- 
orate their  boudoirs. 

The  pioneers,  and  these  two  men  are  pioneers,  have 
not  only  to  break  the  path,  but  they  must  also  pay 
for  the  breaking  of  it.  A  few  years,  a  quarter,  a 
half  of  a  century,  and  such  pioneers  are  admired  and 
honoured,  and  chosen  by  the  Colony  Club  of  New 
York  to  give  distinction  to  an  exhibition.  There, 
in   a    beautiful    room,    beautifully   decorated,   was 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  179 

Gauguin — ^his  incomparable  "Maria  Orona"; 
Cezanne — his  magical  "Still  Life";  Degas — his 
lovely  blue  reclining  figure;  Seurat — his  witty  "In 
the  Park." 

And  it  is  possible  that  50  years  hence  the 
Colony  Club  of  that  day  will  be  showing  a  group 
of  Walt  Kuhn's  rhythmic  adventures  among  In- 
dians, and  a  group  of  John  Marin's  conversations 
with  the  abstract.  Meanwhile  these  pioneers,  these 
two  men  and  others,  must  placate  the  Present 
which  is  not  easy.  The  1  per  cent  is  enthusiastic, 
the  99  per  cent  is  indifferent. 


IftaMHilWM 


12.    WANTED:  A  NAME 

HIS  full  name  is  Emanuel  Ray,  but  he  calls  him- 
self Man  Ray,  which,  professionally,  is  good. 
His  parents  were  Russian;  he  was  born  in  Philadel- 
phia, and  is  now  living  in  New  York.  Short,  young, 
dark,  intelligent,  a  thinker  and  a  student,  modest 
in  manner,  but  quite  sure  of  himself,  he  is  one  of 
that  group  of  artists,  born  of  foreign  parents,  often 
Slavonic,  who  have  become  American  citizens,  and 
who  are  producing  art  that  is  quite  different  from 
the  accepted  canons. 

I  saw  his  exhibition  at  the  Daniel  Gallery,  and 
was  so  interested  that  I  visited  the  Man  Ray 
"drawings  and  paintings"  three  times,  and  followed 
it  up  by  an  evening  at  his  studio.  We  had  a  long 
talk.  I  handled,  examined,  and  discussed  examples 
of  his  work  done  since  1913.  I  give  these  par- 
ticulars so  that  you,  reader,  may  be  prepared  for 
my  attempt  to  explain  why  I  am  devoting  an  essay 
to  Mr.  Man  Ray. 

By  way  of  preliminary  it  is  necessary  to  make  my- 
self clear  on  two  points.  First,  I  do  not  claim  that 
he  is  a  genius.  I  do  not  even  claim  that  he  is  a 
great  originator.  Although  he  has  never  been 
abroad,  and  consequently  has  not  followed  the  de- 
velopment of  Picasso  and  Picabia,  to  name  but  two, 
he  has  of  course  seen  stray  works  by  them,  and 
1 80 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  i8l 

reproductions  that  have  come  to  America.  For  bet- 
ter or  for  worse  they  were  the  originators  of  the 
new  geometrical  (there  is  really  no  word  for 
it)  movement  in  art,  and  Mr.  Man  Ray  v/ould 
readily  admit  it.  For  ten  or  more  years  Cubism  has 
been  in  the  air  in  America,  the  Armory  Show  of 
1913  rushed  it  to  those  American  studios  (not  very 
many)  that  were  attuned  to  its  definite  hiero- 
glyphics. Marcel  Duchamp,  whose  "Nude  Descend- 
ing a  Staircase"  picture  was  the  most  discussed 
work  in  the  Armory  exhibition,  was  the  link 
between  Picasso  and  young  America.  When  I  asked 
Mr.  Man  Ray  what  he  thought  of  the  Armory 
Show,  he  answered  solemnly  (he  is  quite  solemn 
and  earnest),  "I  did  nothing  for  six  months.  It 
took  me  that  time  to  digest  what  I  had  seen." 
And  when  I  say  that  he  is  not  a  great  originator,  I 
do  not  mean  to  imply  that  he  is  an  imitator.  Far 
from  it.  Think  of  the  number  of  minds  that  helped 
to  perfect  the  Tank.  Each  added  something  vital, 
and  the  inquiry  as  to  the  inventor  of  the  Tank, 
instituted  by  the  British  Government  has  not  been 
able  satisfactorily  to  determine  the  mind  which  had 
the  first  idea.  An  inquiry  into  the  originator  of 
Cubism  would  discover  that  there  are  hints  and 
suggestions  of  it  long  before  Picasso.  If  Euclid  had 
possessed  the  passion  for  tone  that  he  had  for 
geometry  his  claim  to  be  the  parent  of  Cubism  in 
art  might  be  urged. 

Man  Ray  has  informed  Cubism  with  his  own  per- 
sonal vision  and  thought.  From  the  structure  of 
Picassoism  he  has  evolved  a  method  of   abstract 


1 82  Art  and  I 

painting  that  seems  to  me  to  be  independent  and 
original.  There  have  been  numerous  examples  of 
it  in  the  Independent  shows  in  Paris,  London  and 
New  York,  some  interesting,  some  futile,  some  in- 
sincere. I  write  about  Man  Ray  because  I  feel  that 
he  is  consistent,  talented,  and  in  earnest. 
Here  it  is  necessary  to  say  that  interest  in  the  Art 
of  Tomorrow  does  not  mean  that  one  has  ceased 
to  be  interested  in  the  Elder,  or  Old  Art.  When 
I  express  my  enthusiasm  for  Cezanne,  Van  Gogh, 
Gauguin  and  Matisse,  there  is  alwa3^s  some  silly  per- 
son who  says,  "Oh,  then,  you  throw  over  Mem- 
line,  Raphael,  Titian  and  Velasquez."  I  do  nothing 
of  the  kind.  I  am  not  an  idiot.  But  I  allow  myself 
to  regard  art  as  the  expression  of  personality,  and  if 
an  artist  produces  something  that  is  strange  to  me, 
I  do  not  resent  it,  as  many  do;  I  try  to  discover  his 
intention  and  to  determine  if  it  has  significance  and 
vitality. 

Pleasure  was  the  result  of  my  first  glance  at  the 
pictures  by  Man  Ray  at  the  Daniel  Gallery.  My 
eyes  were  gratified,  my  mind  was  stimulated.  I  bore 
no  grudge  against  the  artist  because  he  was  not  paint- 
ing like  Manet  or  Monet,  who  in  their  youth  were 
regarded  as  revolutionaries  and  rebels  against  tradi- 
tion. That  did  not  enter  into  my  aesthetic  judg- 
ment. I  was  content  to  be  interested  in  a  new 
vision  and  a  new  method. 

The  pictures  in  the  anteroom  at  once  interested 
me.  There  were  ten  of  them,  each  the  same  size, 
each  done  in  vivid  flat  colours,  and  each  carried  its 
title,  such  as  "Mime,"  "Long  Distance,"  "Orches- 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  183J 

tra,"  "Legend,"  "Dragonfly" ;  and  each  was  flat  and 
geometrical,  never  plastic  and  representative.  It 
was  manifest  that  the  artist  had  abjured  plasticity, 
had  banished  the  third  dimension.  They  were  all 
in  two  dimensions.  To  be  quite  frank,  although 
my  eyes  were  charmed  by  their  colour,  and  the 
mathematical  precision  of  the  designs,  I  doubt  if  I 
should  have  attached  much  meaning  to  them  had 
it  not  been  for  the  indicating  titles.  I  felt  rather 
like  Alice,  who,  when  she  read  the  poem  called  "Jab- 
berwocky,"  said  to  herself,  "Somehow  it  seems  to 
fill  my  head  with  ideas — only  I  don't  exactly  know 
what  they  are."  But  how  delightful  to  find  pic- 
tures that,  besides  pleasing  the  eyes,  crowd  the  head 
with  ideas,  inchoate — nebulous,  if  you  like — but 
ideas.  Soon  the  design  called  "Legend"  meant  a 
great  deal  to  me,  and  so  did  "Orchestra"  and 
"Long  Distance." 

Looking  closer  at  these  strange,  bright,  mathemat- 
ical, rhythmical  things,  I  discovered  that  they  were 
not  painted  with  the  brush.  The  designs  are  cut 
from  coloured  papers,  arranged  harmoniously, 
according  to  the  artist's  scheme,  and  pasted  upon 
boards.  Later,  I  was  to  learn  from  the  artist  that 
this  method  is  a  protest  against  the  importance  that 
has  been,  and  is,  accorded  to  technique.  He  strives 
to  escape  from  technique,  to  give  not  a  quality  of 
paint,  but  a  quality  of  idea.  He  wants  to  work  in 
a  medium  that  is  already  controlled,  like  musical 
notes,  so  that  he  can  give  all  his  thought  to  in- 
ventive form  and  line  in  two  dimensional  aspects: 
he  wants  his  painting  to  be  unworried  by  tactile 


184  Art  and  I 

values  (which  Mr.  Berenson  adores)  and  to  show 
not  handiwork  but  the  idea  at  the  back  of  it. 
Carr}ang  on  this  notion  of  negation,  of  protest 
against  the  obtrusive  handiwork  of  technique,  he 
shows  in  the  next  room  a  group  of  paintings  that 
are  produced  entirely  by  the  air  brush.  He  invents 
the  design,  schemes  the  colours  with  mathematical 
precision,  and  then  squirts  the  colour  on  the  board, 
always  exactly  following  his  formula.  To  him  the 
idea  and  the  abstract  realisation  are  everything; 
the  concrete  carrying  out  of  the  idea  he  maintains 
is  mechanical,  and  can  be  done  by  anybody  with  a 
little  training.  Mr.  Man  Ray  looks  forward  to 
the  time  when  pupils,  with  air  brushes,  will  repeat 
a  master's  design  in  colour  a  dozen,  a  hundred 
times,  as  often  as  needed  by  the  public.  By  this 
method  the  idea,  reft  of  circumlocution  and  em- 
broidery, is  represented  stark  and  often  beautifully, 
as  in  "The  Rope  Dancer  Accompanies  Herself 
with  Her  Shadows,"  "Silhouette:  the  Dancer 
Dances,"  and  "The  Admiration  of  the  Orchestrelle 
for  the  Cinematograph." 

Three  brush  paintings  are  also  shown,  including  a 
large  version  of  "Legend."  Close  the  eyes,  repeat 
to  yourself  the  word  "Legend,"  and  there  arises, 
does  there  not,  a  picture  of  the  crisp,  quick,  orig- 
inal idea:  then  there  proceeds  from  it,  through  cen- 
turies, gradually  getting  thinner  and  more  diffuse, 
the  accretions  that  accumulate  on  the  idea,  until  it 
fades  into  a  blur  in  which  the  quick,  crisp,  or  orig- 
inal idea  of  Legend,  although  still  present,  is  almost 
blanketed  out  of  recognition.     That,  I  take  it,  is 


iiHiJ 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  185 

the  meaning  of  the  Intellectual  Colour  Pattern  he 
calls  "Legend." 

It  is  obvious  that  we  have  here  a  young  man  who 
has  something  to  say,  and  it  is  nothing  against  him 
that  his  productions  are  not  in  line  with  the  teach- 
ing of  academies.  He  studied  in  drawing  acade- 
mies, impatiently  and  without  fervour,  until,  by 
happy  chance,  he  fell  in  with  an  architectural  engi- 
neer draftsman.  With  delight  he  went  through  a 
course  of  mechanical  drawing,  which,  as  everyone 
knows,  demands  definite  designs  and  mathematical 
accuracy.  But  he  is  no  stranger  to  the  traditional 
drawing  and  painting.  I  have  seen  some  admirable 
drawings  from  the  model  by  him,  also  some  remark- 
able landscapes,  and  the  head  and  bust  of  a 
"Woman  Sleeping"  that  is  as  powerful  and  vital 
as  anything  I  have  come  across  lately.  It  is  a 
picture,  not  of  a  woman  sleeping:  it  is  a  picture  of 
sleep. 

I  have  tried  to  explain  Mr.  Man  Ray's  art — its 
colour,  its  design,  and  its  meaning.  And  I  have 
been  trying,  without  much  success,  to  find  a  name 
for  his  productions.  What  shall  I  call  them — 
Abstract  Pictures,  Intellectual  Pictures,  Geo- 
metrical Pictures?  That  omits  the  joy  of  their 
colour,  and  the  amusement  of  their  design.  How 
would  Geometrical  Joy  Pictures  do?  No,  I  fear 
I  must  fall  back  upon  the  artist's  own  title — Draw- 
ings and  Paintings  by  Man  Ray.  Why  not  Ray 
Paintings?     For  in  them  are  rays  of  a  new  vision. 


13.     THE  99  PER  CENT 

I  AM  interested  in  the  99  per  cent  who  do  not 
buy  pictures.  I  want  to  minister  to  their 
aesthetic  needs,  to  persuade  artists  to  cater  for  them, 
and  adapt  their  talents  to  comforting  the  99  per 
cent.  The  1  per  cent,  who  buy  pictures,  can  look 
after  themselves.  For  a  wealthy  member  of  the 
1  per  cent  the  Romney  group  of  the  Beckford  girls 
was  destined.  In  buying  it  he  was  influenced  by 
the  fact  that  it  obtained  the  highest  price  ever 
paid  for  a  picture  at  auction.  This  Romney  fetched 
at  Christie's  £54,600  ($273,000)  (old  style).  Such 
prices  partake  of  sport  rather  than  art.  I  like  sport, 
but  I  prefer  art.  Because  I  like  the  irony  of  this 
kind  of  sport,  which  values  a  thing  for  its  cost  and 
rarity,  I  enjoy  the  comment  of  a  famous  book- 
binder who  had  bound  for  a  fabulous  sum  a  pre- 
cious volume  for  a  client.  Something  went  wrong 
with  the  binding,  and  the  indignant  client  brought 
the  book  back  to  the  binder.  The  binder  examined 
the  book  carefully,  and  then  said,  "It's  your  own 
fault.  You've  been  reading  it." 
I  told  this  story  to  an  artist  at  a  private  view  of 
modern  pictures.  He  laughed  so  understandingly 
that,  to  reward  him,  I  said,  "Show  me  what  you 
have  here."  He  took  me  to  his  picture,  a  large, 
very  large,  fine,  sombre  nocturne,  marked  rather  by 
i86 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  187 

technical  skill  than  by  impulse.  "That's  a  gallery 
picture,"  I  said,  "an  epic  in  the  1-per-cent  category. 
Do  you  ever  paint  lyrics  for  the  99  per  cent?" 
He  is  the  kind  of  man  who,  when  he  does  not 
understand  the  whole  of  a  question,  answers  part 
of  it.  "My  little  boy  paints  lyrics,"  he  said.  Then 
he  added  the  astonishing  statement:  "He's  a  bet- 
ter painter  than  I  am  because  he  has  never  been 
taught:  I  wouldn't  teach  him  anything  for  the 
world.  He's  an  abstract  painter,  like  all  children 
and  savages.  All  this  talk  about  recapturing  the 
childlike  vision  is  perfectly  sound,  but  few  of  us 
can  do  it.  I  can't.  When  my  little  boy  brought 
me  his  last  batch  of  pictures  (I've  got  them  here 
in  a  parcel:  I'll  show  them  to  you  directly),  I  said, 
'This  is  abstract  painting.'  To  which  he  naturally 
replied,  'What's  abstract,  Poppa?'  I  gave  him  the 
dictionary  meaning — 'Separated  from  matter,  prac- 
tice, or  particular  examples,  not  concrete.  Essence. 
Summary.'  The  boy  looked  bewildered,  so  I  said 
to  him:  'Never  you  mind.  Sonny,  what  your 
paintings  mean,  or  the  how  or  why.  Just  go  ahead 
and  do  them.'  This  abstract  painting  is  very  inter- 
esting. My  boy  gets  the  essence,  the  summary,  the 
separation  from  matter  apparently  quite  easily.  I'm 
learning  a  lot  from  him.     Out  of  the  mouth  of 

babes  and  sucklings Also  I'm   unlearning  a 

lot.  I'm  unlearning  every  day,  and  perhaps  when 
I  have  unlearned  almost  ever^'thing  I  have  learned, 
I  shall  begin  to  paint — lyrics.  Or — what  I  mean 
is,  why  shouldn't  a  man  some  day  be  able  to  express 
in  colour  and  line  on  a  flat  surface  ideas  as  simple 


1 88  Art  and  I 

and  profound  as  the  statements  in  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount?  It  has  no  technique — at  least  it 
doesn't  show  any.  Truth  doesn't  need  an}^  tech- 
nique. My  boy's  paintings  are  just  truth  to  his 
own  pure  vision." 

Later  he  opened  the  parcel  in  the  cloakroom  and 
showed  me  his  small  son's  paintings.  They  were 
just  what  I  expected.  I  have  seen  many  of  the 
kind  before.  Of  course  they  were  immature  and 
incorrect  according  to  art  drawing  master  stand- 
ards, but  they  had  something — essence,  summarj^, 
that  no  school  can  teach.  "The  world  can  give 
him  the  world's  knowledge,"  said  the  father,  "but 
in  gaining  it  he'll  lose  the  real  thing." 
Later  in  the  week  I  paid  my  friend  a  visit.  He 
lives  in  a  beautiful  and  secluded  place.  I  won't 
say  where  it  is,  because,  although  a  well-known 
painter,  he  is  still  a  student,  and  it  is  not  wise 
to  answer  letters  of  inquirj^  while  you  are  still 
learning.  I  took  with  me  a  copy  of  the  London 
Athenixum  because  it  contained  an  article  by  Roger 
Fry  on  "Teaching  Art,"  with  an  account  of  the 
work  done  in  the  art  class  at  the  Dudley  High 
School  for  girls  under  the  tuition  of  Miss  Marion 
Richardson.  The  article  attracted  me  because 
when,  looking  it  over,  I  noticed  that  Mr.  Fry  had 
suggested  that  the  word  "intuition"  would  be 
nearer  the  mark  than  "tuition." 
My  friend  conducted  me  upstairs  to  the  studio 
and  proceeded  to  show  me  his  pictures.  They 
were  all  exhibition  works — epics.  I  had  no  fault 
to   find   with    them,    except   that   these   noble   and 


V»^J.i!t.   iwr-t 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  189 

sombre  interpretations  of  nature  were  gallery 
works,  and  executed  for  the  1  per  cent.  As  he 
hoisted  one  after  another  upon  the  easel  (he  must 
have  shown  me  10),  my  eyes  wandered  to  the  wall 
upon  which  he  had  pinned  the  studies  that  he  had 
made  for  these  pictures,  and  others,  direct  from 
nature,  premier  coup,  that  is,  begun  and  finished  at 
a  sitting.  They  were  fresh  and  impulsive,  with 
strong  colour,  and  upon  each  he  had,  like  Con- 
stable, written  the  time  of  day,  the  direction  of  the 
wind  and  the  atmospheric  conditions.  There  was 
a  blue  pool  with  white  sheds  reflected  in  the  water ; 
there  was  a  green  hill-top  with  clouds  coming  and 
going;  there  was  a  bright  meadow  with  one  tree 
and  a  stream.  Each  of  these  had  been  painted  a 
dozen  times,  under  different  weather  conditions, 
from  dawn  to  eve ;  and  in  each,  so  it  seemed  to 
me,  his  idea  Avas  to  lose  form  in  light.  He  did 
not  neglect  form,  but  he  made  it  subservient  to 
light,  as  if  over  all  objects  he  had  dropped  a  lumi- 
nous gauze  of  abstract  colour. 

"Those  are  lyrics,"  I  said,  "those  are  for  the  99 
per  cent." 

His  eyes  roamed  the  wall,  and  he  said,  "Oh,  those 
are  merely  sketches." 

"Those,"  I  remarked,  "are  merely  you,  the  real 
you.  They  are  abstract  statements  of  colour  and 
form.  You  have  not  evaded  the  objects,  but  you 
have  been  engrossed  in  painting  light,  not  the 
objects.  You  have  not  given  a  thought  to  tech- 
nique, you  have  not  given  a  thought  to  producing 
clever  painting;  you  have  just  let  yourself  go  in  the 


190  Art  and  I 

rendering  of  light;  you  have  enjoyed  yourself,  and 
in  thus  expressing  your  real  selfhood,  you  have  got 
nearer  than  you  think  to  what  you  admire  in  your 
boy's  work,  to  the  childlike  vision." 
"But  these  sketches,"  he  interrupted,  "are  nothing 
compared  with  my  large,  serious  pictures." 
"Why  not?  The  large  pictures,  I  admit,  are  more 
learned,  the  world's  learning;  but  they  are  all  lum- 
bered over  with  our  western  convention  of  tech- 
nique. That's  what  the  1  per  cent  wants.  I  don't. 
I  want  the  results  of  intuition,  not  of  tuition ; 
I  want  personal  vision,  not  the  school  vision,  and 
that,  I  take  it,  is  what  the  99  per  cent  want,  and 
also  Roger  Fry. 

"In  this  paper  on  'Teaching  Art'  he  makes  this 
excellent  and  acceptable  statement,  'It  is  not  dif- 
ficult for  savages  and  children  to  be  artists,  but  it 
is  difficult  for  the  grown-up  civilised  person  to  be 
one.'  Elsewhere  he  says,  'Everyone  is  potentially 
an  artist,  since  everyone  has  a  unique  spiritual 
experience.'  That  runs  with  Fromentin's  great 
saying  that  the  true  aim  of  painting  is  to  paint  the 
invisible,  or,  in  other  words,  to  express  our  own 
personal  vision.  We  can't  do  that  if  we  are 
dragged  down  by  the  effort  to  represent  things  as 
they  look  to  the  outward  eye  with  a  technique 
that  has  been  imposed  upon  us.  Turner's  real 
expression  of  himself,  his  spiritual  vision,  were  his 
water  colours,  'Delight  Drawings,'  as  Ruskin 
called  them,  not  such  material  theatricalities  as 
'Dido  Building  Carthage.'  " 


Thfc^rnir 'ffrmr  i«  -  -     -    - 


The  Art  of  Tomorrow  191 

"Then  do  you  want  me  to  give  up  painting  big 
pictures?"  he  asked. 

"By  no  means.  There  is  always  the  1  per  cent, 
which  includes  the  public  galleries  of  the  world. 
Live  and  let  live.  Nobody  will  be  more  delighted 
than  I  when  you  paint  a  masterpiece,  but  I  only 
beg  you  not  to  try  it  too  often,  and  I  also  ask  you 
not  to  forget  the  99  per  cent,  many  of  whom 
hunger  for  art,  and  who  go  unsatisfied  because 
painters,  a  reserved,  aloof  and  rather  narrow  lot, 
will  not  cater  for  them.  The  kind  of  things  the 
99  per  cent  want  are  what  your  son  will  one  day 
do,  if  you  allow  him  to  follow  his  own  personal 
vision,  and  those  things  of  yours  pinned  there  on 
the  walls.  What  the  99  per  cent  needs  is  a  choice 
among  an  artistic  freight  that  has  tossed  overboard 
those  old-men-of-the-sea — laborious  technique  and 
inflated  prices." 

While  I  was  talking  a  shaft  of  light  from  the 
setting  sun  darted  into  the  room.  We  both  looked 
from  the  window  and  both  exclaimed.  Our  excla- 
mations differed,  but  each  meant,  "How  beauti- 
ful!" 

He  seized  a  20x16  board,  and  began  to  work  excit- 
edly, impulsively,  thinking  of  nothing  but  the  joy 
of  interpreting  the  spasm  of  beauty  that  evening 
had  revealed.  He  worked  on,  forgetful  of  time, 
forgetful  of  me,  forgetful  of  technique  and  ambi- 
tion, and  I,  watching  this  "Delight  Picture"  grow- 
ing under  his  hand,  murmured:  "This  is  the  real 
man,  this  is  the  childlike  personal  vision,  this  is 
Number  One  of  the  belated  offering  to  the  99  per 


192  Art  and  I 

cent  who  need  the  rejuvenation  of  art.  This  is  a 
Tomorrow  picture — this  flash  of  the  moment  eter- 
nal." 

While  he  was  painting  two  lines  of  Meredith's  were 
pattering  through  my  head : 

Life  that  had  robbed  us  of  immortal  things, 
This  little  moment  merciful  gave. 

This  little  moment!  To  seize  that  moment,  that 
flashing  moment  of  insight,  which  comes  to  every- 
body. And  to  make  the  moment  eternal.  Is  not 
that  what  is  needed? 


Ai  J   I  lirJrn"  t  a  ■  ilitti^  i  1 


PART  III 
THE  ART  OF  YESTERDAY 


THE  ART  OF  YESTERDAY 

1.     O  RARE  WANG  WEI! 

"TTE    fasted    three    days    before  opening    the 

rl  Roll." 
Long  ago,  when  I   read  that  sentence,   I  became 
interested  in  Chinese  painting. 

To  fast  three  days  before  examining  a  painting,  so 
as  to  be  prepared  for  encounter  with  a  masterpiece, 
argues  a  height  of  connoisseurship  rather  uncom- 
mon. The  incident  is  authentic.  Prime  Minister 
Tung  Ch'i-Ch'ang  of  Hangchow  (1SS5-1636)  was 
the  connoisseur,  who  fasted  three  days  before  open- 
ing the  Roll,  and  Wang  Wei  (699-759)  was  the 
artist  (he  was  also  a  poet).  The  Roll  in  question 
was  Wang  Wei's  "Snow  Clearing  Up  on  a  Moun- 
tain by  a  River,"  painted  about  750  A.  D. 
O  rare  Wang  Wei!  We  Europeans  can  never 
have  the  privilege  of  fasting  before  one  of  your 
masterpieces  for  the  adequate  reason  that  none  have 
come  westward.  The  nearest  we  can  get  to  the 
experience  is  the  landscape  in  the  British  Museum 
painted  in  the  style  of  Wang  Wei  by  one  Meng- 
Fu.  Even  in  this  derivation,  Wang  Wei*s  moun- 
tains and  river  have  the  sweep  of  an  eagle. 
Think  of  it!     Here  is  a  nation  that  records  the 

195 


196  Art  and  I 

existence  of  two  sages,  one  the  inventor  of  writing, 
the  other  the  inventor  of  drawing,  who  flourished 
under  the  Yellow  Emperor  more  than  4,500  years 
ago;  a  nation  that  has  allowed  the  Japanese,  once 
their  pupils,  to  override  them  in  art,  and  trounce 
them  in  war;  a  nation  that  made  most  of  the  dis- 
coveries of  natural  science  without  troubling  to 
apply  them,  and  who  today  do  the  labour  of  the 
world  and  wash  out  notes  on  the  chronology  of  the 
Chinese  dynasties  from  my  shirt-cuff. 
East  is  east  and  west  is  west  and  never  the  twain 
shall  meet.  In  art  certainly  they  never  meet,  except 
in  that  awful  room  at  a  Paris  Exposition  where 
certain  Japanese  artists,  who  had  studied  in  Paris, 
showed  portraits  done  in  the  western  convention. 
Oh,  how  sad,  and  bad,  and  mad  they  were.  A 
Chinese  artist  would  never  have  descended  to  such 
traffic  with  the  round-eyed  vigorous  westerner. 
The  modern  Chinese  paintings,  rolled  up  as  of 
yore,  painted  this  centuiy,  painted  a  year  ago,  are 
all  in  the  immemorial  tradition ;  a  little  freer  in 
brushwork,  but  dealing  with  the  old  themes  ex- 
quisitely, as  of  old,  filling  the  space,  unrealistic, 
yet  catching  the  spirit  of  the  wild  duck,  the  bam- 
boo, clouds,  purling  water  and  stealthy  fish ;  always 
decorative,  always  reverent  to  nature;  always  akin, 
but  differing,  of  course,  in  degree,  to  essential 
beauty. 

The  convention  of  Chinese  painting  has  never 
changed.  Masters  great,  masters  small,  have  passed 
across  the  centuries,  but  the  ritual,  the  grave  cere- 
mony of  the  art,  in  production  and  in  presentation, 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  197 

persists  to  this  day.  The  pictures  are  on  rolls,  and 
the  master  of  the  house  never  displays  more  than 
three  or  four  at  a  time,  always  choosing  those  suit- 
able to  the  rank  and  taste  of  his  guest.  Special 
pictures,  thoughtfully  selected,  were  surely  shown 
to  Prince  Chun  (circa  1086),  who,  as  a  painter, 
"exhausted  every  charm  of  the  bamboo."  And  to 
Wu  Tao-tzu,  "a  poverty-stricken  orphan,"  who 
"now  stands  by  universal  consent  as  the  head  of 
all  Chinese  painters." 

About  A.  D.  750  the  Emperor  requested  Wu  Tao- 
tzu  to  paint  the  Chialing  River,  After  months 
he  returned  without  any  sketches.  Asked  by  the 
Emperor  to  explain,  Wu  Tao-tzu  answered,  "I 
have  it  all  in  my  heart."  Special  pictures,  too, 
must  have  been  shown  to  that  minor  painter  (but 
what  subtlety  was  his)  who  said  that  it  is  com- 
paratively easy  to  paint  fine  weather  turning  to 
rain,  but  very  difficult  to  suggest  rainy  weather 
turning  to  fine. 

A  great  race  of  artists — these  silent,  sensitive 
Chinese.  To  them  painting  was  poetry,  and  poetry 
painting.  They  would  speak  of  written  pictures 
and  painted  poems,  and  in  their  pictures  a  verse 
about  a  swallow  and  the  swallow  in  flight  mingle 
as  dawn  and  day. 

In  China  the  custom  of  the  studio  has  been  pre- 
served for  centuries  and  centuries.  The  Chinese 
artist  paints  usually  from  a  height;  his  viewpoint 
is  that  of  a  bird  on  the  wing;  he  stands  before  a 
red  table  upon  which  the  silken  painting-ground  is 
spread,  and  with  full  brush  and  unerring  instinct 


198  Art  and  I 

he  puts  down  in  rhythmic  sweeps,  or  in  sumptuous 
detail,  the  memory  of  something  that  he  has  stored 
in  his  heart — today  a  river  winding  through  miles 
of  countr}^,  tomorrow  a  plum  blossom,  a  tiger,  a 
prince  or  a  sage,  always  in  a  decorative  environ- 
ment. The  Chinese  artist  is  never  vulgar,  never 
robustious.  Whistler  is  China's  western  child. 
Centuries  ago  it  was  ordained  that  there  are  six 
fine  arts — ceremonies,  music,  archery,  charioteer- 
ing, calligraphy,  and  mathematics. 
Note  that  word  "calligraphy."  From  it  Chinese 
painting  has  sprung. 

In  the  beginning,  in  China,  writing  and  drawing 
were  one.  So  decorative  were  the  six  styles  of 
script,  or  ideographs  as  they  are  called,  that  a 
poem,  written,  say,  in  the  "grass"  script,  is  as 
attractive  as  a  painting,  and  is  shown  as  if  it  were 
a  painting.  The  change  from  calligraphy  to  paint- 
ing was  gradual.  Indeed,  it  may  have  been 
almost  instantaneous,  dating  from  the  time  when 
Meng  Tien,  employed  in  building  the  Great  Wall 
in  200  B.  C,  used  his  leisure  in  inventing  the 
writing  brush  for  use  on  silk,  a  great  advance  from 
the  stylus  painfully  incising  letters  on  the  bamboo. 
Suppose  that  Meng  Tien,  sitting  one  day  in  the 
shade  of  the  Great  Wall,  made  a  poem  about  the 
swallow  and  wrote  it  down  with  flowing  brush  in 
pretty  decorative  squares.  What  more  natural 
than  that  his  sweetheart  (they  must  have  had  them 
even  in  B.  C.)  should  ask  him  to  make  a  picture  of 
the  swallow  about  which  he  had  sung  so  prettily, 
or  perhaps  she  made  one  herself  in  the  letter  she 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  199 

wrote  back  to  him.  The  idea  "caught  on,"  as  we 
say.  It  developed ;  but  calligraphy  has  never  been 
quite  dethroned.  Everyone  who  has  seen  a  Chinese 
or  Japanese  picture  has  noticed  what  an  important 
part  the  signature  plays  in  the  decorative  scheme. 
Whistler  had  this  in  mind  when  he  signed  his 
pictures  with  a  butterfly. 

This  marriage  between  calligraphy  (how  a  Chinese 
artist  would  hate  the  typewriter)  and  painting  has 
always  interested  me.  Once  I  asked  my  amiable 
laundrj^man  to  put  into  Chinese  script  that  haunt- 
ing poem  from  the  Christ  Church  MS.  called 
"Preparations";  but  the  negotiations  fell  through — 
trade  was  too  good.  And  when  I  inquired  at  mu- 
seums for  specimens  of  fine  Chinese  calligraphy,  I 
was  met  with  negative  shakes  of  the  head,  and 
shown  superb  examples  of  Chinese  painting — mu- 
seum pieces.  "But  I  want  to  see  how  it  all  grew," 
I  said.  "I  want  to  watch  the  bud  blossom  into  the 
flower." 

Then  one  day  by  chance  (is  it  chance?)  the  oppor- 
tunity came.  I  heard  that  a  lady  had  arrived  in 
America  from  China  bringing  with  her  a  curiously 
interesting  collection  that  had  belonged  to  a  Chinese 
merchant  who  had  spent  years  gathering  it  in  from 
all  quarters.  It  contained  no  fewer  than  40  speci- 
mens of  calligraphy,  some  Ming  (1365-1644), 
others  Ch'ing  (1644-1911).  The  poems  have  all 
been  translated  and  a  copy  of  the  translation  goes 
with  each  scroll.  And  there  were  also  in  this  col- 
lection 20  ancient  and  important  pictures,  20 
ancient  pictures  of  charm  but  less  important,  and 


200  Art  and  I 

35  quite  modern  works.  Looking  at  them,  the 
westerner  may  at  last  understand  the  significance  of 
Chinese  calligraphy,  how  it  merged  gradually  into 
painting,  and  how  the  art  is  bound  up  with  the 
dreams,  ideals,  ethics  and  philosophy  of  China, 
symbolised  in  handwriting,  which  is  so  personal,  so 
intimate,  which  offers  such  opportunities  for  loving 
adornment,  and  symbolistic  messages  from  one 
heart  to  another.  And  we  have  thrown  it  all  over 
for  the  typewriter. 

I  spent  an  afternoon  examining  this  collection,  and 
as  one  after  another  of  the  pictures — calligraphic 
and  pictorial — was  unrolled  and  hung  on  the  white 
wall,  I  lived  the  thought  and  heart  of  China: 
I  saw  in  imagination  the  Chinese  gentleman  who 
hung  two  scripts,  decorative  as  pictures,  on  either 
side  of  his  desk.  One  said  to  him,  "Although  man 
cannot  see" — and  the  other  said  to  him,  "Stored  in 
my  heart  I  myself  know."  Then  I  was  shown  a 
picture  of  a  Chinese  interior  with  children  paying 
their  respects  to  their  grandparents  on  New  Year's 
Day — a  delightful  room,  a  real  Chinese  room,  a 
household  where  calligraphy  is  still  treated  as  an 
art,  where  Chinese  pictures  are  properly  shown 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  and  the 
ritual  of  the  Book  of  Rights. 

And  I  said  to  myself — "Here  is  an  opportunity 
for  a  museum  to  step  down  from  its  pedestal  of 
exclusiveness  to  the  ways  where  the  people  walk 
and  live.  Let  a  typical  Chinese  room  be  built,  a 
dwelling  room,  not  a  show  room,  and  let  there  be 
exhibited  in  it,  at  stated  times,  a  collection  such 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  201 

as  this,  showing  how  calligraphy  merged  into  paint- 
ing, shown  as  it  would  be  shown  in  China,  in  the 
right  surroundings,  with  the  right  furniture.  That 
would  be  real  art  education — the  intelligent  under- 
standing of  one  nation  by  another — home  calling 
intimately  to  home,  not  museum  vying  splendifer- 
ously  with  museum. 

And  presiding  over  this  room  I  see  the  benign  and 
ascetic  figure  of  that  admirable  Prime  Minister  who 
fasted  three  days  before  opening  the  Wang  Wei 
Roll. 
O  rare  Wang  Wei! 


'^'-^'■^•"  "I'liiA    i~i'  iMiTl"  Ti"'i~r  "if       ' ■".-.: .HiTo. 


2.    JAPANESE  PRINTS 

BETWEEN  Japanese  paintings  and  Japanese 
colour  prints  there  is  a  deep  difference.  The 
paintings  were  done  by  men  of  good  family  for 
aristocrats.  The  colour  prints  were  done  by  men 
of  the  people  for  the  people.  But  genius  is  not  a 
respecter  of  persons.  So  some  of  the  eighteenth  and 
nineteenth  century  colour  prints  are  works  of 
genius,  as  are  some  of  the  venerable  paintings. 
You  may  buy  Japanese  colour  prints  today  for  a 
few  cents :  you  will  have  to  pay  hundreds  of  dollars 
for  a  beauty,  and  for  a  great  beauty  perhaps  thou- 
sands, if  it  also  happens  to  be  a  great  rarity. 
I  have  a  story  to  tell,  but  before  beginning,  it  may 
be  well  to  say  a  few  words  about  the  Japanese 
colour  print,  for  the  useful  writer  always  assumes 
that  his  reader  knows  nothing.  The  art  is  fairly 
modern.  The  dates  of  Utamaro  are  1753-1805;  of 
Hokusai  1760-1849;  of  Hiroshige  1796-1858. 
These  colour  prints  were  meant  for  the  people,  as 
the  coloured  Christmas  supplements  of  the  London 
illustrated  weeklies  are  meant  for  the  people.  If 
you  ask  me  why  the  Japanese  colour  prints  are  so 
much  better,  I  can  only  answer  that  people  get  the 
colour  prints  and  the  Christmas  supplements  they 
deserve.  Eastern  art  has  always  been  decorative 
and   symbolistic.      It   has   never  made   an   idol   of 

202 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  203 

representation  as  Western  art  has.  It  has  been  con- 
tent with  two  dimensions — height  and  width. 
Western  art  has  made  a  fetish  of  the  third  dimen- 
sion, depth.  In  this  convention  the  West  has  pro- 
duced great  and  wonderful  works,  and  in  doing  so 
it  has,  to  a  large  extent,  lost  sight  of  the  injunc- 
tion that  a  picture  should  be  primarily  a  deco- 
ration. It  was  the  decorative  quality  of  the  Jap- 
anese colour  prints,  and  their  acknowledgment  of 
the  eloquence  of  empty  space  that  made  Whistler, 
when  he  first  saw  them,  slip  from  the  hand  of 
Courbet  and  glide  into  the  arms  of  the  Japanese. 
I  have  said  that  the  popular  school  of  painting  in 
Japan,  of  which  the  colour  print  was  the  chief  out- 
come, is  of  recent  growth.  There  were  Primitives 
in  this  as  in  all  other  arts.  One  was  Moronobu. 
His  father  was  a  maker  of  gold  embroidery.  The 
son  was  first  a  dyer  and  then  a  painter.  This  Prim- 
itive was  at  the  height  of  his  modest  fame  in  1700. 
A  good  date  to  remember. 

The  Japanese  colour  prints — art  for  the  people, 
"Ukiyoye,"  which  means  "Mirror  of  the  Passing 
World" — have  virtually  all  been  produced  since 
1700.  They  were  really  potboilers.  Painting  was 
the  fine  thing  to  do,  but  the  colour  prints  brought 
in  the  ready  money.  The  same  thing  happens 
today.  A  man  earns  a  living  by  illustrating,  while 
looking  forward  to,  and  longing  for  the  time  when 
he  will  have  a  picture  on  the  line  at  the  Royal  or 
National  Academy,  or  a  one-man  show  in  Bond 
Street  or  Fifth  Avenue,  But  Fame  is  a  pranky 
mistress,    and    Utamaro,    Hokusai,    and    Hiroshige 


204  Art  and  I 

are  famous  today,  not  because  they  painted  sym- 
bolistic pictures  for  the  well-to-do,  but  because  they 
made  cheap  colour  prints  for  the  People. 
For  these  colour  prints  were  cheap,  very  cheap. 
Would  you  like  to  know  how  they  were  made? 
Three  stages  were  necessary,  and  three  persons : 

1.  An  artist  made  the  design  on  thin,  semi-trans- 
parent paper. 

2.  An  engraver  cut  it  on  a  block  of  cherry-wood, 
one  block  for  each  colour. 

3.  A  printer  printed  the  colour  blocks  in  succes- 
sion till  the  work  was  complete. 

The  Japanese  is  a  wonderfully  artistic  workman. 
To  Western  eyes  the  excellence  of  this  colour  block 
work  is  amazing. 

These  colour  prints  were  thought  little  of  in  Japan. 
They  were  sold  for  a  trifle;  they  were  scattered 
broadcast.  Toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury a  few  came  into  the  possession  of  some  Dutch 
merchants.  For  years  little  was  thought  of  them  in 
Europe  or  in  Japan.  Sometimes  they  were  used  as 
wrapping  paper  for  goods.  But  by  the  second  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century  the  De  Goncourts,  Bing, 
Gonse,  and  such  artists  as  Degas,  Monet,  and 
Whistler  began  to  hymn  their  beauty.  Since  those 
days  the  appreciation  and  value  of  Japanese  colour 
prints  has  increased  by  bounds.  In  the  past  10 
years  knowledge  about  them,  and  the  desire  to 
possess  them,  has  enormously  advanced.  Japart 
now  knows  their  value.  And  England.  And 
America. 
I  have  been   a   dabbler   in   collecting  them   for  a 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  205 

quarter  of  a  century.  I  own  five  beauties.  I  always 
forget  who  they  are  by.  I  know  only  that  they 
are  beautiful,  and  that  the  artist's  signature  on  a 
flame-colour  background  is  part  of  the  decorative 
scheme. 

I  also  know  that  the  front  seat  of  an  auction  is 
the  place  to  learn  about  pictures.  So  when  it 
was  announced  that  400  Japanese  colour  prints 
were  to  be  sold  at  the  Anderson  Galleries  I  deter- 
mined to  be  present.  It  is  rather  an  ordeal  to  sit 
from  a  quarter  past  8  till  nearly  11  through  two 
evenings,  so  I  took  with  me  a  copy  of  Arthur 
Waley's  "Japanese  Poetry"  just  received  from 
London,  thinking  that  I  would  beguile  the  time 
in  learning  two  or  three  Japanese  "Tanka"  or 
"Short  Songs,"  five  lines  long.  In  the  "Ten  Thou- 
sand Leaves,"  an  Anthology  of  Japanese  poems 
written  between  670  and  759  A.  D.,  there  are  4,173 
"Tanka."  I  did  not  learn  any.  The  sale  was  too 
exciting,  partly  because,  at  the  last  moment,  a 
friend  gave  me  a  marked  catalogue  and  asked  me 
to  bid  for  32  items.  I  did  not  get  one  of  them. 
He  is  a  connoisseur.  He  knows  the  best.  But 
there  were  other  connoisseurs  in  the  room,  more 
ardent  than  he.  He  was  willing  to  go  to  $500  for 
Shunsho's  "Portrait  of  a  Young  Woman."  It 
fetched  $1,025.  He  offered  $300  for  Hiroshige's 
"The  Bow  Moon."  It  brought  $475.  And  for 
Shunyei's  "Two  Women  Conversing,"  a  beautiful 
thing,  like  a  Goya,  he  suggested  $300.  It  fetched 
$390. 


2o6  Art  and  I 

But  I  was  not  thinking  so  much  about  prices  during 
those  two  long-short  evenings,  as  about  the  dif- 
ference between  Eastern  and  Western  art.  How 
astray  we  have  gone  in  our  search  for  realism,  and 
our  competitive  anxiety  to  produce  exhibition  pic- 
tures. Even  the  commonest  of  these  Japanese  pic- 
tures please  the  eyes  because  they  are  decorative 
and  follow  the  laws  of  rhythm.  They  are  in  a 
tradition  which  honours  mass,  line,  form  and 
colour.  Their  colour  captivates:  their  lyricism  in- 
vites. And  as  for  subject,  here  is  a  description  of 
one^ — "A  mother,  holding  a  bunch  of  iris  flowers, 
is  accompanied  by  her  daughter.  They  are  highly 
pleased  to  hear  the  notes  of  the  cuckoo."  Another 
shows  a  heron  perched  on  a  trunk  of  a  weeping 
willow;  another  a  flock  of  sea  birds  flying  over 
waves;  another  girls  promenading  under  wistaria 
lanterns;  another  a  woman  and  child  admiring  the 
moon,  rising  above  a  grey  cloud.  They  were  of  all 
kinds  and  of  all  qualities  ranging  from  five  to  a 
thousand  dollars.  I  have  long  passed  the  $5  stage. 
I  am  afraid  I  have  become  rather  an  expert,  and 
must  content  myself  with  the  five  beauties  I  pos- 
sess, for  this  sale  proclaimed  that  there  are  now 
few  bargains  to  be  picked  up.  People  know  too 
much.  A  poet  had  to  pay  $160  for  Hiroshige's 
"Downpour  of  Rain."  I  had  hoped  to  get  it  for 
$100. 

When  the  sale  was  finished  I  returned  to  my  apart- 
ment and  pondered  over  an  album  of  reproductions 
of    important    Western    paintings.      Realism    and 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  207 

dashing  technique.  Size  and  swagger.  Hardly  a 
lyric  among  them. 

Perhaps  some  day  a  Western  artist  will  arise  who, 
realising  how  suitable  the  essential  decorative  qual- 
ity of  these  Japanese  colour  prints  is  for  wall  deco- 
ration, will  set  himself  to  produce  pictures  for  the 
house,  not  for  the  exhibition  gallery.  The  effort, 
I  know,  is  being  made,  witness  the  coloured  Wood 
Block  exhibition  at  Boston,  but  it  will  be  a  long 
climb.  Are  we  not  a  little  vulgar  in  our  eagerness 
for  the  big  picture,  by  a  big  name,  in  a  big,  shiny 
frame,  exposed  on  the  pretentious  wall  of  a  big 
house?  No,  I  won't  say  again  that  East  is  East 
and  West  is  West.     But  it  is. 

Japan  has  a  long  tradition  of  this  lyrical,  rhyth- 
mical picture — one  thought,  one  emotion,  one  reflec- 
tion, simply  and  suddenly  expressed.  How  the 
tradition  has  lasted!  The  "Tanka"  or  "Short 
Songs,"  although  many  of  them  were  written  an 
immense  period  of  time  before  the  Colour  Prints 
were  made,  have  a  similar  inspiration  and  form. 
Listen — 

The  spring  rain 

Which  hangs  to  the  branches 

Of  the  green  willow 

Looks  like  pearls 

Threaded  on  a  string. 

Here  is  another — 

The  wild  geese  returning 
Through  the  misty  sky 
Behold,  they  look  like 
A  letter  written 
In  faint  ink 


2o8  Jrt  and  I 

And 

Beautiful 

From  the  direction  of  my  house 

Clouds  rise  and  come ! 

I  could  find  a  poem  in  this  book  for  every  lovable 
picture  that  flitted  through  the  auction  room. 


3.    ANCIENT  ART  AND  THE  SOLDIER 

I  WAITED  on  a  cold  Sunday  for  the  Metropol- 
itan Museum  of  New  York  to  open.  There 
were  soldiers  among  the  expectant  group,  and  one 
of  them  was  gazing  intently  upon  a  picture  in  a 
Sunday  journal.  The  soldier  moved  the  paper  as 
if  inviting  me  to  share  what  he  was  enjoying.  It 
was  a  monument  to  Segantini,  the  Italian  land- 
scape painter,  which  has  been  erected  at  S.  Moritz, 
showing  a  flock  of  sculptured  sheep  pasturing  round 
the  base,  under  a  range  of  the  mountains  among 
which  Segantini  lived,  and  which  he  painted  with 
forceful,  sculpturesque  beauty. 
I  like  telling  soldiers  things  and  I  never  make  the 
mistake  of  "talking  down"  to  them.  So,  as  the 
rain  pattered,  and  the  doors  remained  firmly  closed, 
I  said — 

"Segantini  was  one  of  the  most  original  of  modern 
landscape  painters.  His  technique  was  personal; 
his  vision  was  personal ;  he  fulfilled  his  mission, 
and,  strange  to  say,  he  has  founded  no  school." 
"Was  he  better  than  the  ancient  painters?"  asked 
the  Soldier. 

"That  is  a  good  question,"  I  replied.  "All  modem 
landscape  is  better  *:han  ancient  landscape  painting, 
simply  because  in  ancient  times  landscape  was  not 
regarded  as  a  serious  branch  of  art.  Man  was  the 
209 


2IO  Art  and  I 

object,  nature  was  an  accessory.  It  was  only  when 
man  began  to  love  and  appreciate  nature  that  he 
began  to  paint  landscapes — for  exhibition." 
"But  were  the  ancient  fellows  who  were  not  land- 
scape painters  better  than  the  moderns?  Our  chaps 
were  having  a  talk  about  this  last  night,  and  I 
thought  I  would  come  here  today  to  see  some  of 
the  old  things," 

"In  sculpture,"  said  I,  " — within  their  prescribed 
limits — the  ancients  were  undoubtedly  better,  but, 
speaking  generally,  art  runs  in  circles,  which  are 
usually  started  by  the  rise  of  some  great  man ;  then 
the  imitators  rush  in,  and  the  movement  dissipates 
itself  in  futilities.  Then  another  great  man  arises, 
the  circle  begins  again,  often  taking  a  higher  sweep, 
but  it  usually  ends  in  decadence.  The  end  of  the 
circle  in  the  island  of  Crete,  in  the  i^^gean  Sea, 
round  about  1500  B.  C,  was  very  like  the  end  of 
the  circle  marked  by  the  advent  of  the  Russian 
dancers  just  before  the  war.  There  were  frescoes 
in  Crete  in  1500  B.  C,  which  might  have  stood  as 
posters  for  the  Russian  ballet  in  1914  A.  D.  Each 
was  decadent,  and  each,  to  my  thinking,  rather 
unpleasant." 

The  Soldier  looked  rather  mystified,  but  it  is  my 
way,  when  I  am  interested  in  a  subject,  not  to 
mind  very  much  if  my  thought  is  not  being  fol- 
lowed. 

The  Soldier  was  an  intelligent  man.     "Where  can 
I  see  these  things  from  Crete?"  he  asked. 
"Why,    here!      The    new    classical    wing    of    the 
museum,  including  many  of  the  things  excavated 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  211 

from  the  palace  of  Knossus,  in  Crete,  Minoan 
period  (you  remember  the  legend  of  the  Minotaur) 
is  just  the  right  place.  We'll  go  around  together, 
if  you  like.  I  should  enjoy  having  your  opinion 
about  ancient  art," 

"I  know  more  about  the  Lewis  gun,"  said  the 
Soldier.  "Hello,  they're  opening  the  doors." 
At  the  entrance  to  the  new  wing  we  were  con- 
fronted by  a  row  of  Roman  statues,  mighty  and 
magisterial,  rough  sentinels,  guarding  the  evoca- 
tions of  beauty  by  the  delicate  Greeks  arranged 
within. 

"What  do  you  think  of  them?"  I  asked. 
"Formidable,"  promptly  answered  the  soldier. 
"Precisely  the  right  word.  'Le  mot  juste,^ "  I 
said.  "These  are  originals.  Always  study  orig- 
inals, never  casts,  if  you  can  help  it.  An  original 
is  as  superior  to  a  cast  as  fresh  salmon  is  to  tinned 
salmon.  Now  we  will  examine  some  of  the  Cretan 
recoveries.  There — look  at  those  frescoes!  Un- 
fortunately they  are  not  originals,  except  bits  here 
and  there,  but  the  restorations  have  been  done  very 
skilfully." 

Nearly  a  dozen  of  these  frescoes  hang  upon  the 
walls  of  the  first  room  of  the  new  wing.  They  are 
extraordinarily  modem-looking  and  they  show, 
with  numerous  other  finds  from  the  palace  of 
Knossus  in  Crete,  what  a  high  state  of  civilisation 
and  luxury  was  reached  in  this  island  beginning 
about  3000  B.  C.  The  procession  of  three  figures 
in  gay  apparel  might  be  an  illustration  in  a  panto- 
mime number  of   the   London  Sketch;  the   fresco 


^fgmgfgmgggmjjgjjjgjggmiigj^^ 


212  Art  and  I 

of  the  "Cat  Hunting  a  Pheasant,"  the  circus  scene 
with  a  bull,  and  the  girl  toreadors,  look  astonish- 
ingly modern. 

"And  they  all  amount  to  nothing,"  said  I,  "except 
to  show  that  the  desire  for  fun  and  relaxation  is 
as  old  as  man,  and  that  man  of  4,000  and  5,000 
years  ago  worked  on  the  same  narrow  and  satiety 
producing  lines  as  today.  Now  we  will  look  at 
something  real." 

We  walked  into  the  hall  of  the  new  wing  and 
paused  before  No.  12,  "Head  of  Athlete,"  second 
half  of  Fifth  Century  B.  C,  possibly  by  Kresilas, 
and  No.  14,  "Head  of  Youth,"  Fourth  Century 
B.  C,  school  of  Scopas.  I  said,  "There,  in  that 
convention,  is  finality,  perfection,  essential  beauty. 
These  fragments  are  by  masters.  A  work  by  a 
modern  master,  like  Rodin,  may  equal  them.  It 
is  not  better,  it  is  different;  a  different  vision,  a 
different  technique — that's  all." 
We  passed  into  the  Pompeian  room.  I  shook  my 
head.  "Here  again  the  kindly  earth  has  preserved 
records  of  a  past  civilisation,  historically  extremely 
interesting,  but  as  art — negligible.  Pompeii  was 
the  Coney  Island,  or  shall  I  say  the  Newport,  of 
Naples,  and  when  this  pleasant  resort  was 
destroyed  by  the  eruption  of  Mt.  Vesuvius,  in  79 
A.  D.,  all  the  vanity  and  vainglory  were  buried. 
The  wall  paintings  you  see  here  were  discovered  in 
1900  in  a  village  near  Boscoreale,  not  far  from 
Pompeii  on  the  slope  of  Vesuvius.  What  do  you 
think  of  them?" 
"Pretty,"  said  the  Soldier. 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  213 

Once  more  my  eyes  gleamed.  "Again  the  right 
word,"  I  said.  "They're  pretty — no  more.  They 
reflect  the  day,  so  they  are  interesting,  but  as  art 
they  don't  count.  Follow  me." 
The  patient  son  of  Mars  was  led  to  the  three 
Ass3Tian  alabaster  reliefs  from  the  palace  of  Ashur 
Nashir  Pal. 

"Originals,"  said  I.  "Unapproachable.  Nothing 
that  has  done  service  in  this  convention  approaches 
them.  Here  relief  carving,  consummate  technique, 
vision  deep  and  restrained,  symbolism  perfectly 
open,  yet  completely  hidden,  reaches  the  zenith  cen- 
turies before  the  Parthenon,  the  zenith  of  Greek 
civilisation,  was  built.  Look!  There  is  a  model 
of  the  Parthenon,  not  as  it  looks  today  under  the 
blue  sky  of  Athens,  maimed,  broken,  but  more 
beautiful  than  ever,  much  more  beautiful,  I  tell  you, 
than  it  looked  on  the  day  it  was  finished,  painted, 
gilded  as  you  see  it  here,  in  the  restoration  by 
C.  Chipiez.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  building 
in  the  world;  it  is  the  zenith  of  classical  perfec- 
tion. And  yonder,  across  the  gangway,  is  a  model 
of  the  great  hall  of  the  temple  of  Karnak,  a  dozen 
centuries  earlier.  Greek  perfection  soothes  and 
satisfies;  but  the  ripe  art  of  Greece, — man  made 
perfect,  man  deified, — lacks  the  sense  of  awe  and 
mystery — man  abashed  before  the  vastness  of  eter- 
nity— that  the  sterner  art  of  Egypt  and  Assyria 
suggest.  It  is  on  the  promise  of  Egypt  and  Assyria, 
not  in  the  performance  of  Greece,  that  the  young 
craftsmen  of  today  are  seeking  their  inspiration. 
Art  changes,  it  does  not  necessarily  improve.     It 


214  ^^^  ^w^  i 

sweeps    in    circles,    and   always   after   Last    there 
cometh  First." 

"Well,    I   must   be   going,"  said   the   Soldier,      "I 
guess  there's  more  ancient  art  than  modern." 
"Perfectly   true,"    I    murmured.      "Like   Marshal 
Foch  you  have  a  way  of  saying  the  right  thing." 


4.    THE  MOUNT  OF  VISION 

ON  the  easel  were  two  of  the  Elder  Painter's 
newly  finished  pictures.  They  were  beauti- 
ful: they  sang  with  colour,  the  radiant  impulsive 
colour  that  is  a  gift,  that  can  never  be  taught ;  the 
trembling  touch  of  a  rare  violinist  cannot  be  taught, 
nor  the  decisive  handling  of  intricate  machinery  by 
a  rare  mechanic.  The  subjects  of  these  two  pic- 
tures were — what  you  will!  You  saw  flovv^ers  in 
glass  vases,  lovely  embroideries,  graceful  inward 
smiling  or  brooding  Chinese  and  Japanese  figures 
all  woven  into  a  pattern  by  a  master-hand ;  not 
actual  life,  but  the  happy  life  lived  in  a  happy 
dream  of  amassed  memories. 
I  gazed,  gazed  again,  smiled  happily,  then  said — 
"Somebody  wrote  the  other  day  that  the  aim  of  art 
is  'to  beautify  existence.'  You've  done  that  in  these 
two  pictures.  And  the  satisfactory  thing  to  me  is 
that  you've  done  it  by  way  of  symbolism,  not  by 
way  of  realism.  I'm  tired  of  realism;  it  leads  no- 
where ;  it  offers  the  imagination  no  avenue  of  escape 
from  the  stark  realities  of  life.  I  never  look  at  an 
issue  of  an  illustrated  weekly  journal  without  a 
feeling  of  acute  depression.  Symbolism  is  the  only 
method,  but  it  must  be  sincere  symbolism.  If  a 
man  doesn't  believe  in  sacred  or  secular  symbolism, 
he  had  better  by  far  paint  the  actual  facts  of  life, 
215 


2i6  Art  and  I 

which,  at  any  rate,  his  eyes  believe  in.  Let  him 
paint  a  quarry  team  on  a  macadam  road,  or  a 
sacred  picture  of  the  gaudy  ephemera  of  popes  and 
cardinals.  But  such  things  are  not  art;  they  are  il- 
lustrations. And  talking  of  sacred  pictures,  I  con- 
sider Raphael's  Colonna  altarpiece  quite  a  bad  pic- 
ture." 

The  Elder  Painter  smiled.  He  seemed  to  approve 
of  this  outrageous  sentiment.  The  Younger 
Painter  said,  "Whew!"  and  then  added:  "Why? 
Why  is  the  Colonna  altarpiece  a  bad  picture?" 
"Because  Raphael  didn't  believe  in  what  he  was 
painting.  It  is  insincere.  Raphael,  of  course,  was 
a  great  master  and  all  that,  but  he  got  to  love  prin- 
cipalities, and  powers,  and  pomp  and  flattery  more 
than  his  art,  so  his  art  suffered.  He  couldn't  paint 
badly,  he  was  a  genius,  but  he  fell  into  the  languor 
of  painting  easily  and  fluently.  Ease,  not  ardour, 
encompassed  him,  so  he  became  one  of  the  world's 
passing  bells." 

"'How?"  asked  the  unruffled  Elder  Painter. 
"The  phrase  is  Ruskin's,  one  of  his  magnificent 
passages.  I'll  read  it  to  you.  Here  it  is  in  my 
notebook,  among  a  number  of  magisterial  utter- 
ances which  I  like  to  read  when  I  am  hanging  upon 
a  strap  in  the  subway.  They  are  antidotes  to 
asphyxiation. 

"  'The  names  of  great  painters  are  like  passing 
bells.  In  Velasquez  you  hear  sounded  the  fall  of 
Spain;  in  Titian  that  of  Venice;  in  Leonardo  that 
of  Milan;  in  Raphael  that  of  Rome.  And  there 
is  profound  justice  in  this:  for  in  proportion  to  the 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  217 

nobleness  of  power  Is  the  guilt  of  its  use  for  pur- 
poses vain  or  vile;  and  hitherto  the  greater  the  art 
the  more  surely  has  it  been  used,  and  used  solely 
for  the  decoration  of  pride,  or  the  provoking  of 
sensuality.'  " 

"Fine!"  said  the  Elder  Painter. 
"Great!"  said  the  Younger  Painter. 
"Go  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  in  the  city  of 
New  York,"  I  continued,  "stand  before  Raphael's 
Colonna  altarpiece,  and  you  will  know  why  Rome 
fell — the  decoration  of  pride,  etc.,  etc.  Then  let 
your  eyes  range  from  this  fluent  and  heartless 
'Virgin  and  Child  Enthroned  with  Saints'  to  two 
portraits,  simple,  straightforward  portraits,  by 
Frans  Hals  that  hang  on  either  side — no  pomp,  no 
power,  just  genius,  sincerity  and  ardour.  Even  the 
names  of  these  sitters  are  forgotten.  One  is  called 
'Portrait  of  a  Man,'  the  other  'Portrait  of  a 
Woman.'  They  are  tolerably  ugly  and  quite  ordi- 
nary, but  they  are  the  essence  of  art,  the  fine 
essence,  a  fusion  of  technique  and  vision,  the  com- 
monplace made  rare  and  regal,  a  sleeve  painted 
with  such  swift  and  lyrical  intuition  that  it  be- 
comes   a    poem.      Yet    what    are    these    portraits? 

They  are  merely  literal  representations  of " 

The  Elder  Painter  smiled. 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  cried.     "These  two  portraits  by  Hals 

are  stark  realism " 

The  telephone  bell  rang.  It  always  does  at  critical 
moments. 

When  the  Elder  Painter  returned  from  the  instru- 
ment, I  broke  in  with  my  interrupted  explanation. 


2i8  Art  and  I 

"Call  them  realism,  but  are  they?  Are  the  works 
of  Velasquez  and  Manet  realism?  No,  no!  Hals 
in  these  two  portraits  has  painted  something  much 
more  than  actual  people;  he  has  painted  their 
envelopment  in  light  and  atmosphere;  in  a  word 
he  has  painted  spiritual  qualities.  See?  So  we 
come  to  this  paradox.  Raphael  painting  the  'Virgin 
and  Child  Enthroned  with  Saints'  produces  an  in- 
effective, material  picture.  Frans  Hals  painting  a 
dull  Dutch  man  and  woman,  produces  an  effective^ 
spiritual  picture." 
"Well?"  said  the  Elder  Painter. 
I  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  upon 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  sights  in  the  world — 
the  sight  of  New  York  from  a  twelfth  story,  at 
the  crepuscular  hour  when  daylight  and  artificial 
light  begin  to  mingle.  Slowly  I  spoke,  and  with 
difficulty.  "It  is  foolish  to  say  that  symbolism  in 
art  is  wiser  and  more  welcome  than  realism.  A 
painter  can  offer  us  just  which  he  likes  so  long  as 
he  convinces  us  of  his  integrity.  It  is  character  that 
tells,  and  it  is  the  biographers  who  have  confused 
us.  They  have  made  Raphael  an  angel,  and  Hals 
a  toper.  Whereas  their  lives  are  written  in  their 
works — that  bad  sacred  picture  by  Raphael,  those 
good  secular  pictures  by  Hals.  Innkeeper  Hals 
was  true  to  his  love  of  art.  Courtier  Raphael  was 
true  to  his  live  of  luxury.  It  was  the  innkeeper  who 
scaled  the  Mount  of  Vision. 

"Each  painted  what  he  had  become — Raphael  with 
ease,  Hals  with  difficulty.  'By  the  thorn-path  and 
none  other,  is  the  Mount  of  Vision  won.'  " 


5.    THE  JUFFROUW  AND  VERMEER 

SHE  was  Dutch — that  was  plain.  Her  father 
is  a  modest  frame-maker  and  artists'  colourman 
in  one  of  the  little  towns  washed  by  the  Zuider  Zee, 
where  painters  congregate.  So  she  knows  a  little 
about  art. 

When  she  came  on  a  brief  visit  to  New  York  I 
was  asked  to  show  her  "something  special  in  the 
picture  way,"  as  it  was  thought  advisable  to  accel' 
erate  her  art  education.  Well,  I  reflected,  Gus- 
tave  Courbet  was  a  big  man,  and  a  pioneer  man, 
and  as  there  will  probably  never  again  be  so  com- 
plete an  exhibition  of  his  works  as  the  40  examples 
at  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  I'll  take  her  there. 
Her  name  troubled  me.  It  seemed  to  be  all  com- 
posed of  the  letters  j  and  y.  I  could  neither  pro- 
nounce nor  spell  it,  so  I  begged  her  to  give  me  a 
generic  word  for  her  standing  in  life.  "You  may 
call  me  Juffrouw,"  she  answered.  "Which  means 
— "  I  began.  "It  means  either  married  or  single, 
and  any  class."  "Good,"  I  replied,  "and  why 
should  I  not  address  you  as  Meisje?"  "Because 
that  means  a  flapper,  which  I  am  not,  and  Mev- 
rouw  means  a  woman  of  high  rank,  and  Vrouw 
a  woman  of  ordinary  rank." 

Having  thus  made  all  clear,  the  Yuffrouw  and  I 

started   out  for   the   Courbet   exhibition.     On   the 

219 


220  Art  and  I 

way  we  passed  a  handsome  building,  and  I  said, 
"That's  one  of  the  nicest  looking  houses  on  Fifth 
Avenue."  "It's  like  a  Dutch  house,"  she  cried, 
looking  very  pleased.  "Yes,"  I  answered,  "it's  the 
Knickerbocker  Club,"  not  caring  to  add — "It's  more 
Georgian  than  Dutch !"  Our  pedagogic  adventure, 
you  observe,  was  beginning  rather  well.  Presently 
she  said,  "Tell  me  of  this  Courbet." 
"About  1850  Gustave  Courbet  was  at  the  height 
of  his  fame,  and  also  of  his  abuse,  for  all  pioneers 
are  abused  by  the  comfortable  orthodox,  always 
have  been,  and  always  will  be.  He  may  be  called 
the  father  of  modern  Realism;  he  was  an  out  and 
out  Realist — that  is,  he  maintained  that  the  painter 
should  only  paint  what  he  sees  before  him.  He 
must  not  invent;  his  imagination  or  fancy  must  be 
entirely  subservient  to  his  eyes.  Courbet  was  great 
because  he  kept  to  this  idea ;  he  never  swerved.  He 
had  rather  a  heavy  touch,  but  a  good  Courbet  is  so 
massive,  deep-delved  and  weighty  that  we  are  con- 
tent to  miss  delicacy  and  charm.  His  landscapes 
and  seascapes  haven't  a  hint  of  the  fairy-like  grace 
of  a  Corot  or  a  Monet,  but  his  colour  is  mag- 
nificent, and  in  such  pictures  as  'The  Lake,'  'The 
Wave,'  'The  Mediterranean'  and  the  'Environs  of 
Ornans,'  he  strikes  an  organ  note  that  is  like  a 
swelling  passage  in  Milton." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Juifrouw,  and  gave  what  lady 
novelists  call  a  sly  smile.  For  a  moment  I  thought 
that  I  would  take  her  to  see  Charlie  Chaplin 
instead  of  Gustave  Courbet,  but  by  this  time  we 
were  at  the  doors  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum. 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  221 

"Now,"  I  said,  "first  I'll  show  you  some  of  my 
favourites,  and  then  before  seeing  the  Courbets 
we'll  just  look  at  a  wonderful,  a  very  wonderful 
Vermeer,  showing  a  Dutch  girl  opening  a  case- 
ment, letting  light  into  a  room  and  into  the  world 

of  art " 

"Johannes  Vermeer  of  Delft,"  cried  the  Juffrouw, 
"he  was  as  great  as  Rembrandt.  People  visit  The 
Hague  just  to  see  his  Meisje  and  his  'View  of 
Delft.'  " 

"Well,  well,"  I  muttered,  "perhaps  it  is  you  who 
will  educate  me."  But  the  Juffrouw  was  not  going 
to  depose  me  easily,  so  I  passed  before  the  "Por- 
traits of  a  Woman  and  a  Man,"  by  Frans  Hals,  in 
Gallery  H,  and  said,  "Can  you  beat  them?" 
"Have  you  seen  the  Frans  Hals  old  women  in  the 
Museum  at  Haarlem?"  asked  the  Juffrouw. 
I  had,  but  I  did  not  want  to  be  reminded  of  them 
at  the  moment.  We  looked  at  Rembrandt's  "Old 
Woman  Cutting  Her  Nails,"  and  at  Hals'  "Yonker 
Ramp  and  His  Sweetheart,"  and  the  Juffrouw 
smiled  again. 

Little  Holland  has  a  great  past. 
Then  we  paused  before  that  gay  and  quaint  pan- 
orama by  Patinir  called  "Imaginary  Landscape," 
the  kind  of  thing  that  Courbet  said  should  never 
be  painted,  as  if  the  world  is  made  up  of  Courbets 
and  nobody  else;  and  from  this  we  passed  to  that 
lovely  panel,  which  was  once  a  decoration  for  a 
settle  or  a  marriage  chest  by  Sano  di  Pietro,  a 
golden  harmony  which  is  as  unlike  a  Dutch  pic- 
ture as  a  sunbeam  is  unlike  a  shop  window.     The 


222  Art  and  I 

Juffrouw  was  not  altogether  pleased  with  this 
fancy  of  Sano  di  Pietro's,  this  Sienese  rendering  of 
King  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  She  is 
used  to  black  frames,  and  this  frame  is  like  a  rain- 
bow. She  was  more  complimentary  to  two  ex- 
quisite pictures  that  hang  side  by  side,  Lawrence's 
"The  Rev.  William  Pennicott,"  one  of  the  best 
portraits  this  unequal  artist  ever  painted,  and  Con- 
stable's "Tottenham  Church,"  a  gem,  Dutch  pre- 
cision dipped  in  the  freshness  of  Constable. 
Approaching  Room  26,  I  requested  the  Juffrouw 
to  close  her  eyes.  "Now  open  them,"  I  cried. 
Before  her  was  Vermeer's  "Young  Woman  with 
a  Water  Jug,"  or  to  give  it  the  prettier  title, 
"Young  Woman  Opening  a  Casement." 
The  Juffrouw  gave  a  cry  of  delight.  She  lingered 
there.  I  could  hardly  persuade  her  to  leave  this 
picture  of  a  girl  letting  light  into  a  room.  Light 
is  here  honoured  by  this  wonder-artist,  Vermeer 
of  Delft,  who  was  born  197  years  before  Courbet 
and  210  years  before  Manet.  It  was  Manet  who 
announced  that  Light  is  the  chief  object  in  a 
picture.  Vermeer  of  Delft  had  already  made  it  so, 
over  200  years  before.  The  subject  is  negligible, 
merely  a  girl  opening  a  casement  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  holding  a  brass  ewer,  but  mark 
how  light  filters  through  and  encompasses  every- 
thing; mark  how  superbly  the  objects  are  placed, 
everything  in  relation,  yet  everything  is  subservient 
to  the  girl's  figure,  to  the  placid  face,  so  quiescent, 
yet  so  watchful  under  the  white  hood — the  Ver- 
meer whites — and  there  too  are  the  Vermeer  blues 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  223 

— those  wonderful  Vermeer  blues.  She  opens  the 
casement  and  light,  more  light  steals  into  the  room, 
and  all  the  pictures  around  seem  commonplace,  for 
this  is  a  Masterpiece. 

With  difficulty  I  persuaded  the  Juffrouw  to  leave 
the  Vermeer.  "We've  come  out  to  see  the  Cour- 
bets,"  I  said,  "and  Vermeer,  great  though  he  be, 
must  not  stand  in  the  way." 

A  noble  show  the  Gustave  Courbets  make,  and 
patiently  I  conducted  the  Juffrouw  from  one  to 
another  of  the  40  examples.  "Yes,"  I  said  in 
reply  to  her  question,  "he  was  a  forceful,  ebullient, 
shapely  man,  proud  of  his  will  and  proud  of  his 
appearance.  You  see  his  portrait  in  no  fewer  than 
four  of  these  pictures.  He  is  the  elegant  hunts- 
man leaning  against  the  tree  in  'The  Quarry';  he 
is  the  ecstatic  'Violoncellist' ;  he  is  the  fierce  'Hunts- 
man on  Horseback  Finding  the  Trail.'  You  can 
gather  from  these  pictures  what  Courbet  looked 
like  to  himself." 

"What  was  Vermeer  of  Delft  like?"  asked  the 
Juffrouw. 

"Nobody  knows!  He  made  one  picture  of  himself 
painting  in  his  studio,  but  he  turned  his  face  away." 
"Dutch  modesty,"  murmured  the  Juffrouw. 
We  then  looked  at  the  Courbets  again,  as  I  was 
conscious  that  the  Juffrouw  was  showing  herself  a 
little  lacking  in  enthusiasm.  Finally  I  said  to  her, 
"You  seem  to  be  rather  tepid  in  your  admiration 
of  Courbet." 

"It's  your  fault,"  answered  the  Juffrouw.  "You 
should  not  have  shown  me  the  Vermeer  first." 


6.    I  HANG  HOLBEINS 

SOME  people  when  travelling  make  their  tem- 
porary dwelling-place  homey  by  arranging 
about  the  room  photographs  of  their  relatives — and 
others.  I  give  my  temporary  dwelling-place  an  air 
of  serenity  by  affixing  to  the  wall,  with  glass  push- 
pins, photographs  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
King  Henry  VHI's  Court. 

It  is  a  whim.  These  sweet,  arch  ladies  and 
swarthy,  elegant  men,  relics  of  the  days  when  folk 
were  unashamed  to  dress,  and  to  pose,  "re  an  anti- 
dote to  the  Labour  complexity.  They  remind  me  of 
a  time  when  life  went  softly  (when  Henry  VHI 
was  not  about),  and  possibly  with  less  friction  than 
in  the  present  strenuous  days.  It  is  comforting  to 
look  at  the  gay  gravity  of  the  Lady  Vaux,  the  Lady 
Lister,  the  Lady  Mertas,  the  Lady  Audley,  the 
Lady  Parker,  the  Lady  Barkley,  and  at  such  pretty 
men  as  William  Parr,  Marquis  of  Northampton; 
Thomas,  Lord  Vaux;  Thomas,  Earl  of  Surrey;  Sir 
Thomas  More's  son,  and  Mr.  Elliott,  Knight,  all 
so  decorative,  so  assured  of  the  supremacy  of  their 
class.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  will  place  under 
them  a  row  of  the  Labour  members  and  their  wives 
just  to  remind  myself  that  all  passes,  and  that  only 
love  is  eternal. 

These  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  court  of  King 
224 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  225 

Henry  VIII  who  decorate  my  walls  are  by  Hol- 
bein. They  are  26  in  number.  I  have  fixed  the 
photographs  upon  the  wall,  two  inches  apart,  in  two 
long  lines,  and  they  have  become  extraordinarily 
companionable.  The  Lady  Parker  is  an  engaging 
child;  Lady  Barkley  is  a  frisky  matron;  the  Lady 
Audley  is  an  ascetic  in  jewels.  Lord  Brooke  of 
Cobman  would  be  an  ill  man  to  appear  before  for 
poaching,  and  I  pity  the  hind  who  had  to  answer 
to  Waramus,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  for  an 
offence  against  ecclesiastical  law.  There  is  quite 
a  likeness  between  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales,  who 
became  Edward  VI,  and  the  present  Prince  of 
Wales.  Each  has  the  candid,  ingenuous  look  which 
sometimes  wears  away. 

Through  the  art  of  Holbein  these  portraits  done 
in  Tudor  times,  done  lovingly  and  patiently  by  a 
master,  speak  to  us.  This  is  the  imm.ortality  of 
which  Horace  sang.  One  thing  is  common  to  all 
these  portraits.  Holbein  focuses  on  the  face. 
The  body,  the  clothes,  the  accessories,  save  when 
he  is  especially  interested  in  a  jewel  or  a  fur 
garment,  are  secondary.  The  face  is  the  thing  with 
Holbein;  the  character,  the  expression,  the  dis- 
position, marvellously  he  builds  it  up ;  he  searches 
for  every  tiny  depression  or  protuberance,  every 
accent  and  innocence,  and  indicates  them  with  an 
economy  of  line  and  shading  which  is  the  despair 
of  artists  in  these  days,  when  we  are  supposed  to 
have  learnt  so  much  more  about  the  art  of  drawing. 
Holbein  could  do  anything  from  a  miniature  por- 
trait, exquisite  and  unrivalled,  the  size  of  a  watch, 


226  Art  and  I 

to  the  enormous  fresco  he  painted  in  1537  for  the 
Privy  Chamber  of  the  Palace  of  "Whitehall,  showing 
in  a  group  Henry  VIII  and  Queen  Jane  Seymour, 
with  Henry  VII  and  Elizabeth  of  York.  This 
fresco  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  1598,  but  a  portion 
of  the  original  cartoon  is  still  preserved  at  Chats- 
worth. 

Unlike  Velasquez,  this  industrious  German  of 
genius  made  drawings  for  his  portraits.  Thanks  to 
the  excellence  of  modern  photography,  anybody,  for 
a  few  dollars,  may  surround  himself,  as  I  have, 
with  Holbein  drawings,  of  which  over  80  are  pre- 
served in  the  Royal  Library  at  Windsor  Castle. 
These  drawings  have  a  curious  and  eventful  his- 
tory. Once  they  were  lost  or  forgotten  and  were 
rediscovered  through  the  curiosity  of  a  Queen. 
Early  in  the  reign  of  George  II,  while  rummaging 
one  day  in  an  old  bureau  in  Kensington  Palace, 
Queen  Caroline  found  them  hidden  away  in  a 
drawer.  That  was  a  lucky  day  for  the  prying 
Queen;  in  this  old  bureau  she  also  found  the  price- 
less drawings  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci  which,  with 
the  Holbeins,  make  the  glory  of  the  royal  collection 
at  Windsor.  You  can  never  really  know  Leonardo 
and  Holbein  until  you  have  sat  a  long  morning 
in  the  Royal  Library  handling  and  examining  the 
supreme  handiwork  of  these  two  masters.  I  sup- 
pose King  George  can  stroll  into  the  library  ny 
day  after  dinner  and  play  with  the  drawings,  if  he 
is  in  the  mood.  But  royal  people  are  not  usually 
as  interested  in  their  possessions  as  are  some  of  their 
subjects. 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  22 j 

How  did  these  Holbeins  get  to  the  Royal  Library 
of  Windsor  Castle?  It  is  a  long  story,  and  the 
drawings  are  justly  described  as  "much  travelled." 
Holbein  visited  England  in  1526,  1531  and  1539; 
he  became  the  King's  painter,  and  when  he  died 
these  drawings  were  presumably  among  his  effects 
',n  his  studio  in  the  Palace  of  Whitehall.  Some 
time  afterwards  they  were  bound  together  in  a  big 
book  and  remained  overlooked,  forgotten,  until  the 
rediscovery  of  them  by  Queen  Caroline  in  the  old 
bureau.  She  must  have  been  a  lady  of  taste,  for 
she  had  them  framed  and  glazed,  and  for  many 
years  they  decorated  her  apartments,  first  at  Wind- 
sor and  afterwards  in  Kensington  Palace.  Before 
this  they  had  gone  through  many  hands,  passing 
in  and  out  of  royal  possession.  Monarchs  amused 
themselves  by  trading  their  objects  of  art  (they 
cannot  do  it  now)  and  we  find  Charles  I  exchanging 
the  Holbein  drawings,  with  the  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
for  a  little  picture  by  Rnphael  of  "S.  George  Slay- 
ing the  Dragon."  There  is  no  accounting  for  taste. 
Perhaps  Charles  I  was  bored  by  these  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  Henry  VHI's  court;  perhaps  they 
reminded  him  too  closely  of  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  his  own  court. 

A  hundred  or  so  years  before  Charles  sold  them 
they  belonged  to  poor  little  King  Edward  VI. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  about  that  as  the  following 
occurs  in  a  royal  inventory  of  1590 — "A  greate 
booke  of  Pictures  doone  by  Haunce  Holbyn  of 
certyne  Lordes,  Ladyes,  gentlemen  and  gentle- 
women in  King  Henry  the  8 :  his  tyme,  their  names. 


228  Art  and  I 

subscribed  by  Sr  John  Cheke,  Secretary  to  King 
Edward  the  6,  wch  book  was  King  Edward  the  6." 
Spelling  was  not  the  strong  point  of  Tudor  folk.  In 
another  Court  account  book  Holbein  is  referred  to 
as  Mr.  Hanse  Holby.  The  antiquary  and  art  his- 
torian, Edward  Norgate,  of  Charles  II's  time,  in 
his  "Miniatura  or  the  Art  of  Limning"  in  the 
chapter  on  crayon  drawing,  says — "A  better  way 
was  used  by  Holbein,  by  priming  a  large  paper 
with  a  carnation  or  complexion  of  flesh  colour, 
whereby  he  made  pictures  by  the  life,  of  many  great 
lords  and  ladies  of  his  time,  with  black  and  red 
chalke,  with  other  flesh  colours,  made  up  dry  and 
hard,  like  small  pencil  sticks." 

The  magnificent  collection  of  Holbein  drawings  at 
Windsor  in  four  portfolios,  now  properly  mounted 
and  arranged,  does  not  by  any  means  contain  the 
whole  of  his  drawing  production.  There  are  a  num- 
ber at  Basel  and  others  in  private  and  public  col- 
lections. Some  have  suffered  from  time,  careless 
guardianship  and  the  impudent  hand  of  the 
amateur,  but  what  a  superb  monument  they  are 
to  Holbein's  genius.  It  is  supposed  that  most  of 
these  drawings  were  preliminary  studies  for  his 
magnificent  portraits.  But  as  only  about  30  oil 
portraits  are  known  which  correspond  with  the 
80-odd  Windsor  drawings,  there  are  probably  still 
a  number  of  Holbein  portraits  hidden  away  in 
garrets  or  in  dark  corridors.  They  await  discovery, 
a  discovery  that  will  be  equal  to  a  small  gold  mine 
to  the  fortunate  owner. 
Meanwhile  those  who  have  searched  their  garrets 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  229 

and  dark  corridors,  and  have  found  nothing  that 
looks  at  all  like  a  Holbein  may  console  themselves 
with  pinning  on  their  walls  a  selection  of  Holbein 
facsimiles  as  I  have  done.  They  will  find  that 
daily  they  grow  more  friendly  with  the  Lady 
Parker,  and  the  Lady  Audley,  with  William  Parr, 
Marquis  of  Northampton,  and  Thomas,  Lord 
Vaux,  with  all  those  who  stalked  and  prattled 
through  Tudor  times.  Art  leads  to  history.  Slowly 
one  learns  something,  more  and  more,  about  these 
attractive  makers  of  social  England,  and  the  thought 
comes  to  me  why  does  not  some  historical  novelist 
weave  a  Tudor  romance  about  these  portraits,  with 
the  eighth  Harry  in  the  centre?  ...  A  Tu- 
dor Romance  by  .     Illustrated  by  Holbein. 


7.    LEONARDO'S  SMILE 

INTELLIGENT  critics  are  always  saying  that  a 
great  work  of  art  is  produced  only  through  in- 
tense feeling,  that  pigments  must  be  engineered  by 
passion.  And  every  painter  knows  that  in  labouring 
on  a  gallery  picture,  the  difficulty  is  to  sustain  the 
rapture  of  the  first  sketch. 

This  applies  also  to  writing — even  to  art  writing. 
A  man  writes  well  when  he  is  moved.  There  was 
an  article  in  the  Burlington  Magazine  on  "Flor- 
entine Painting  Before  1500,"  by  Sir  Claude 
Phillips,  apropos  the  exhibition  of  early  Florentine 
pictures  at  the  Burlington  Fine  Arts  Club,  a  de- 
lightful subject,  a  well-informed,  scholarly  article. 
For  nine  columns  he  calmly  dignifies  and  decorates 
his  theme,  but  with  the  tenth  and  last  column 
something  happens.  Passion  intrudes.  His  intense 
feeling  carries  him  away,  and,  consequently,  he 
carries  his  reader  away  with  him.  I,  for  one,  ended 
the  article  in  a  glow.  Joy  called  to  joy,  enthusiasm 
to  enthusiasm,  and  was  answered. 
Why  was  this?  What  work  of  art  was  it  that 
kindled  our  sedate  critic,  and  set  his  sedate  reader 
vicariously  aglow.  It  was  occasioned  by  a  group  of 
works  that  each  has  seen  scores  of  times.  But  that 
is  the  miracle  of  great  art.  It  gives  and  re-gives; 
it  never  loses  its  radium  power. 
230 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  231 

This  group  of  works  comprised  some  drawings  by 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  from  the  royal  collection  at 
Windsor  and  his  cartoon  of  the  "Madonna,  Child 
and  S.  Anne"  from  the  Diploma  Gallery  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  London. 

Those  who  sit  at  a  table  in  the  Royal  Library  of 
Windsor  Castle,  passing  in  review  the  collection 
of  drawings  by  Leonardo,  have,  perhaps,  the  art 
experience  of  their  lives.  From  these  drawings  by 
the  Myriad-minded,  often  with  comments  in  the 
margin,  minutely  written  with  his  left  hand,  from 
right  to  left  of  the  page,  we  gain  a  deeper  insight 
into  the  mentality  of  this  great  Florentine  than  even 
his  marvellous  paintings  offer.  Art  to  him  was  an 
episode,  life  was  his  province.  He  investigated 
everything:  he  experimented  with  everything  from 
a  flying  machine  to  a  roasting  spit.  He  was  always 
learning,  always  disinclined  to  finish  a  work.  One 
day  he  procrastinated  over  a  Madonna,  on  the  next 
over  a  parachute.  WTien  Isabella  d'Este  demanded 
a  picture  from  him,  suggesting  a  Madonna  "pious 
and  sweet  as  is  his  style"  she  was  informed  that  "he 
is  entirely  wrapped  up  in  geometry  and  has  no 
patience  for  painting."  But  Leonardo  always  had 
the  patience  to  write  and  draw,  and  his  drawings 
are  such  that  Claude  Phillips,  seeing  them  at  the 
Burlington  Fine  Arts  Club,  is  lifted  into  a  fervour 
of  feeling  and  cries:  "With  some  simple  delinea- 
tion of  man  or  woman,  he  sets  the  door  ajar  and 
gazes  into  the  essential  mystery  of  life,  as  no 
creative  artist  before  or  after  his  time  has  done." 
Perhaps  the  drawings  of  Leonardo   require  some 


232  Art  and  I 

connoisseurship  for  their  complete  appreciation,  but 
the  cartoon  of  the  "Madonna,  Child  and  S.  Anne^' 
appeals  to  everybody,  learned  and  unlearned.  It 
hangs,  usually,  dim  and  lovely,  large  and  magisterial, 
in  an  inner  room  of  the  Diploma  Gallery.  Vis- 
itors rarely  penetrate  to  this  chamber,  so  the  student 
can  usually  count  on  being  alone  with  the  witchery 
of  this  picture.  To  me  it  is  much  more  impressive 
and  intimate  than  the  finished  or  unfinished  (for 
Leonardo  rarely  finished  anything)  oil  painting  in 
the  Louvre.  Gazing  upon  it  one  becomes  deeply 
conscious  of  the  inward  smile  that  illuminates  and 
deepens  the  faces  of  the  Madonna  and  S.  Anne,  the 
haunting  Leonardo  smile,  that  he  wrought  out  to 
the  uttermost  mystical  expression  in  the  portrait 
of  Mona  Lisa. 

The  Leonardo  smile  was  the  fashion  in  Florence. 
It  is  no  fancy.  Walter  Pater  refers  to  the  "scep- 
tical smile"  of  one  of  Leonardo's  angels.  It  has 
been  claimed  that  Leonardo  did  not  invent  the 
smile.  A  Russian,  Dmitri  Merejikowski,  who  has 
written  a  remarkable  novel  around  the  life  of 
Leonardo,  asserts  that  he  had  already  seen  this 
smile  on  the  face  of  Thomas  in  the  picture  of  his 
master,  Verrocchio.  But  as  Leonardo  worked  in 
Verrocchio's  studio  and  on  his  pictures  he  may 
have  overtly  introduced  the  smile.  I  prefer  to 
think  that  it  is  all  Leonardo's.  "Mona  Lisa"  made 
the  smile  popular  and  fashionable.  For  years  after- 
ward the  cub  painters  of  Florence  introduced  the 
Leonardo  smile  into  their  pictures. 
This  smile  pervades  the  books  on  Leonardo.    Two 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  233 

are  important,  that  by  Osvald  Siren — accurate  and 
dull,  and  the  novel  by  Dmitri  Merejikowski — 
creative  and  vivid.  In  England  it  is  called  "The 
Forerunner,"  a  proper  title,  as  this  unique  man  was 
a  forerunner.  A  score  of  twentieth  century  "dis- 
coveries" were  foreseen  and  investigated  by  him. 
In  America  "The  Forerunner"  is  called  "The 
Romance  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,"  an  unworthy 
appeal  to  so-called  popular  taste.  The  reason  is 
plain.  Merejikowski  imagines  that  Leonardo,  the 
bachelor,  elderly  when  he  painted  her,  had  a  pure 
friendship,  overwhelming  and  lifelong,  for  Mona 
Lisa  Gioconda,  the  young  wife  of  a  Florentine  per- 
sonage. It  was  her  smile  that  fascinated  him,  and 
to  produce  it  and  to  keep  it  hovering  on  her  face 
he  arranged,  when  she  sat  to  him,  that  music  should 
be  played,  and  that  she  should  listen  to  the  sound 
of  running  water.  When  he  went  to  France  in 
the  service  of  Francis  I,  he  took  the  portrait  with 
him.  Francis  saw  it  at  the  Chateau  Cloux,  where 
Leonardo  lodged,  was  fascinated  by  it,  and  offered 
a  huge  sum.  But  Leonardo  was  determined  to  keep 
the  portrait  by  him.  Eventually  King  Francis 
obtained  it,  and  Mona  Lisa,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
now  belongs  to  France. 

This  story  of  Leonardo's  love  for  Mona  Lisa  is  quite 
credible  and  quite  possible,  but  there  is  no  au- 
thority for  it.  We  know  that  he  painted  her;  that 
he  employed  music  and  running  water  and  told  her 
stories  to  keep  her  amused,  and  to  retain  that  elusive 
smile  rippling  on  her  face.  And  it  seems  certain 
that  Leonardo,  prizing  this  portrait,  carried  it  with 


234  Art  and  I 

him  to  France  and  also  two  other  pictures.  For 
in  the  Naples  Library  there  is  a  manuscript 
describing  a  journey  made  by  Cardinal  Luigi  of 
Aragon  from  Tours  to  Amboise,  which  is  near 
Chateau  Cloux.  It  was  written  by  his  travelling 
companion,  Don  Antonio  Beati.  The  manuscript 
is  dated  Oct.  10,  1517,  and  contains  this  passage: 
"In  one  of  the  suburbs  we  went  to  visit  the  Floren- 
tine, Lunardo  Vinci,  an  old  man,  the  most  eminent 
painter  of  our  times.  He  exhibited  to  His  Excel- 
lency three  pictures,  one  of  them  representing  a 
certain  Florentine  lady  painted  from  nature  at  the 
desire  of  the  late  Giuliano  Magnifico  de  Medici." 
The  second  represented  John  the  Baptist  as  a  youth ; 
the  third,  Mary  sitting  in  the  lap  of  St.  Anne. 
These  three  pictures  are  now  in  the  Louvre. 
Leonardo  was  an  onlooker.  He  took  no  side.  He 
made  weapons  of  warfare  for  friend  or  foe.  His 
interest  in  making  them  was  because  thus  he  could 
establish  his  theories.  He  could  write  in  his 
Journal,  "I  maintain  that  Force  is  something 
spiritual  and  unseen" ;  he  could  write,  with  gravity, 
an  invocation  like  this,  "O  Prime  Mover!  the  angle 
of  incidence  must  be  equal  to  the  angle  of  reflec- 
tion." Flying  obsessed  him.  Could  he  have  fore- 
seen that  in  the  twentieth  century  an  airman  may 
breakfast  late  in  Paris  and  lunch  early  in  Lon- 
don, what  would  he  have  thought?  Possibly  he 
would  have  asked  himself  the  question  which  a 
few  twentieth  century  lookers-on  address  to  them- 
selves— "Is  this  new  knowledge  any  more  helpful  to 
the  world  than  the  knowledge  that  Moses  had?" 


8.     MISSING  THE  MARK 

JL.  MOTLEY  described  Macaulay's  conversa- 
tion as  "perfection  of  the  commonplace  with- 
out a  sparkle  or  flash."  Those  words  came  to  my 
lips  when  I  stood  before  the  portraits  of  M.  and 
]VIme.  Leblanc  by  Ingres,  at  the  Metropolitan 
Museum. 

Ingres  is  an  honoured  name  in  modern  art.  We 
think  of  him  with  chilly  reverence.  Books  and  in- 
numerable articles  have  been  written  about  him. 
The  bulletin  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum  has  an 
article  of  nearly  four  columns  in  praise  of  these  two 
portraits,  which  were  acquired  at  the  Degas  sale. 
This  article  analyses  these  honoured  portraits  of  M. 
and  Mme.  Leblanc,  which  were  painted  by  Ingres 
at  Florence,  in  1822-23 ;  it  inspires  the  reader  to 
hasten  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  and  to  feast 
his  eyes  on  these  masterpieces  by  Jean  Auguste 
Dominique  Ingres. 

Disappointment  awaits  him;  he  dare  not  say  it 
aloud,  but  in  his  heart  he  finds  these  two  portraits 
complacently  dull ;  he  sees  before  him  two  common- 
place, faultlessly  accurate  likenesses;  he  stares  at 
madame's  plump  arms  and  hands  and  remembers 
that  the  writer  of  the  note,  quoting  from  Lapauze, 
tells  us  that  Ingres  before  painting  the  arms  "drew 
them  separately,  then  together,  first  uncovered,  then 
235 


236  Art  and  I 

with  mittens,  then  again  with  the  right  hand  on 
the  arm  of  the  empire  chair — the  left  drawn  twice 
in  the  position  of  the  portrait,  resting  on  the  left 
leg,"  and  so  on. 

Every  art  student  knows  that  this  is  not  the  way 
to  produce  a  work  of  art,  but  it  is  certainly  the  right 
way  to  do  what  Ingres  wanted  to  do — and  did 
faultlessly,  but  without  a  glimmer  of  fervour  or 
fancy. 

These  portraits,  although  historically  interesting, 
are  not  works  of  art  at  all.  They  are  excellent  ex- 
amples of  Ingres,  and  as  a  museum  should  contain 
specimens  of  all  masters,  great  and  small,  who  have 
played  a  part  in  the  evolution  of  art,  the  museum 
authorities  were  right  in  acquiring  these  perfections 
of  the  commonplace  portraits.  Were  these 
laboriously  literal  renderings  of  the  faces  and 
clothes  of  a  prosperous  French  lady  and  gentleman 
works  of  art  the  art  lover  might,  without  reproach, 
decide  to  seek  aesthetic  satisfaction  elsewhere  than 
in  art.  But  let  him  not  despair.  Let  him  do  as 
I  did.  Let  him  leave  M.  and  Mme.  Leblanc  and 
walk  straight  to  the  portrait  of  a  Dutch  man  and 
woman  by  Frans  Hals.  These  are  works  of  art. 
"Elan  vital"  runs  through  them.  The  garments 
they  wear  are  suggested,  not  copied,  you  see  the 
fabrics  move,  you  hear  their  rustle,  the  light  touches 
them  and  shifts;  but  the  garments  in  the  portraits 
by  Ingres  have  no  quality  of  life;  they  are  merely 
laborious  copies  of  what  Ingres  saw  with  the  out- 
ward eye  and  faithfully  rendered^.  Strange  it  is 
that  Frans  Hals,  a  Dutch  innkeeper,  should  have 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  237 

this  power,  and  Ingres,  director  of  the  French 
Academy  in  Rome,  an  influence,  a  venerated  mas- 
ter, should  be  entirely  without  it.  The  explana- 
tion is,  of  course,  that  Hals  had  genius.  Ingres 
had  not. 

Ingres  was  merely  a  great  ordinary  craftsman  who 
had  learned  how  to  copy  accurately  objects  placed 
before  him.  He  is  esteemed  because  the  world 
adores  the  commonplace:  it  is  safe.  Ingres  is 
venerated  as  one  of  the  eminent  moderns  who 
flourished  before  art  took  wings,  before  the  day  of 
Whistler  and  Sargent.  Why,  M.  and  Mme.  Le- 
blanc  are  not  fit  to  hang  in  the  same  room  as 
Whistler's  "Portrait  of  My  Mother"  and  "Carlyle," 
or  with  Sargent's  "Marquand."  Compared  with 
these  they  are  artisan's  work. 

We  should  neither  idolise  nor  depreciate  Ingres. 
He  has  his  assured  place  in  the  logical  development 
of  French  art.  When  his  admirers  tell  me,  with 
glee,  that  Degas  treasured  these  Ingres  portraits 
more  than  any  of  his  belongings,  I  smile  and  re- 
ply— I  should  like  to  hear  Degas  on  that.  Of 
course  he  prized  them  because  he,  being  a  French- 
man, had  a  high  respect  for  the  tradition  of  French 
art.  Ingres  is  one  of  the  outstanding  figures,  as 
Pope  is  one  of  the  figures  in  English  literature, 
but  although  he  holds  a  place  in  the  history  of 
poetry,  Pope  was  no  poet.  Degas  ©herished  these 
Ingres  portraits,  but  he  did  not  copy  them.  He 
went  his  own  way  and  that  way  was  the  study 
of  nature  seen  through  his  artistic  temperament. 
Ingres  cherished  Raphael.    He  regarded  him  as  his 


238  Art  and  I 

supreme  model,  and  when  he  painted  a  picture  the 
thought  in  his  mind  was  not  how  does  this  subject 
appeal  and  appear  to  me,  but  how  would  Raphael 
have  painted  it.  In  this  way  Ingres  produced  his 
"Apotheosis  of  Homer,"  an  accurate  and  dull 
classical  picture — Raphael  and  barley  water.  His 
"Source,"  which  visitors  to  the  Louvre  cannot  help 
seeing,  is  the  kind  of  nude  that  a  Greek  would 
have  painted  had  he  possessed  the  materials  and  the 
technical  skill.  A  contemporary,  looking  at  the 
"Source"  murmured  that  Ingres  was  an  ancient 
Greek  lost  and  bewildered  in  the  modern  world.  If 
Ingres  was  bewildered  in  the  art  world  of  the 
nineteenth  century  (his  dates  were  1778-1867) 
what  would  have  been  his  mental  condition  towards 
the  art  world  of  the  twentieth  century?  What 
would  he  have  thought  of  Matisse  and  Picasso? 
Yet  in  his  day  Ingres  was  called  a  revolutionary. 
His  "CEdipus  and  the  Sphinx,"  painted  in  1808, 
was  received  with  "horror  and  dislike"  by  the 
pundits  of  the  school  of  David.  To  us  today 
"OEdipus  and  the  Sphinx"  seems  sternly  classic  and 
stolidly  uninteresting:  to  the  classicists  of  1808  it 
was  revolutionary,  and  they  groaned  and  cried  that 
Ingres  had  failed  in  fealty  to  the  "grand  and  noble 
style  of  the  great  masters  of  the  Roman  school." 
What  would  they  think  of  Sargent's  "Gassed,"  or 
Childe  Hassam's  "Flags  in  Fifth  Avenue,"  or 
Augustus  John's  "Canadians  Before  Lens"?  The 
world  moves:  it  also  changes,  not  always  for  the 
better,  but  Degas  was  certainly  a  higher  type  of 
artist  than  Ingres. 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  239 

Ingres  was  a  prodigious  worker.  If  industry  could 
make  a  great  artist  he  would  be  among  the  first 
in  the  world.  In  the  museum  at  Montauban  there 
are  20  studies  for  his  portrait  of  Mme,  Leblanc, 
But  genius  is  much  more  than  a  capacity  for  taking 
pains.  Enthusiasm,  emotion,  passion  never  entered 
into  the  art  of  Ingres,  but  in  his  equipment  there 
were  character  and  a  cold  rectitude  "dogmatic  and 
defiant  like  that  of  an  early  saint."  Archaeology, 
not  actuality,  was  the  fashion  in  his  day,  and  every- 
body was  quite  pleased  when,  in  1800,  Ingres  won 
the  Grand  Prix  de  Rome  with  "Achilles  Receiving 
in  His  Tent  the  Envoys  of  Agamemnon."  His 
"Roger  Delivering  Angelica,"  taken  from  Ariosto's 
"Roland  Furieux,"  shown  at  the  Salon  in  1819,  was 
an  advance.  This  picture  has  been  claimed  as  one 
of  the  pioneers  of  pre-Raphaelitism,  a  suggestion 
which  would  not  have  pleased  Ingres,  as  to  him 
Raphael  was  all  in  all.  It  shows  a  youthful  knight, 
astride  a  hippogrifiF,  slaying  a  marine  monster,  which 
is  about  to  make  a  meal  of  a  beautiful  young  woman 
unkindly  chained  to  a  rock. 

Ingres  was  an  academic  draftsman,  without  im- 
agination and  timid  of  vision.  He  should  never 
have  composed  pictures.  Today  he  would  have 
made  his  living  with  portraits  and  drawings.  When 
he  had  a  model  before  him,  such  as  M.  Bertin, 
director  of  the  Journal  des  Debats,  a  man  of 
forceful  character,  and  striking  physique,  he  was 
able  to  produce  a  strong  and  vivid  portrait,  and 
there  is  something  magisterial  about  his  full  length 
of  "Le  Due  d'Orleans."     The  details  of  the  uni- 


240  Art  and  I 

form  and  accessories  are  painted  with  excessive  care, 
yet  buttons,  decorations  and  epaulets  do  not  seem  as 
real  as  such  things  are  under  the  twirls,  blobs,  and 
flourishes  of  Frans  Hals'  magic  brush. 
And  now,  having  ended  my  grumble  about  Ingres, 
I  close  my  eyes  and  recall  certain  drawings  by  him 
of  young  and  elderly  women.  How  exquisite  they 
are.  In  their  way,  within  their  limitations,  they 
are  perfect.  Yes,  acquire  an  Ingres  drawing  by  all 
means,  if  you  can  get  one,  and  hang  it  by  itself  on 
a  white  wall.  It  will  be  a  perpetual  joy.  Such 
drawings  are  Ingres  intime,  Ingres  doing  what  he 
could  do  best,  what  nature  meant  him  to  do; 
but  when  you  go  to  see  Ingres  in  his  public  capacity, 
in  his  competitive,  masterly  manner,  say  the  por- 
traits of  M.  and  Mme.  Leblanc — prepare  to  be 
disappointed  and  uncomfortable.  For  no  one  is 
comfortable  when  an  archer  with  a  great  name 
misses  the  mark. 

To  attain  the  commonplace  so  often  is  to  miss  the 
mark. 


9.    ART  AND  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

T     ISTEN,  Belinda,  please  listen — 
-■— '      "  *On  entering  Gallery  F8  the  visitor  will 
probably  experience  something  of  Aladdin's  bewil- 
derment when  the  treasures  of  the  secret  cave  first 
met  his  eyes.'  " 

"Well?"  murmured  Belinda.  "Well?" 
"Why,  don't  you  see — here  is  enthusiasm,  real 
enthusiasm,  in  an  official  publication!  The  passage 
I  have  read  to  you  is  in  the  pamphlet  issued  by  the 
New  York  Metropolitan  Museum  describing  the 
Pierpont  Morgan  wing.  Enthusiasm  in  a  curator! 
I  am  impressed.  He  has  conveyed  his  enthusiasm 
to  me.  We  must  go  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
at  once  and  enjoy  these  objects  of  Renaissance  art 
of  the  Fifteenth  and  Sixteenth  centuries.  We  won't 
look  at  anything  else  in  the  Morgan  wing.  We'll 
put  on  invisible  blinkers.  We'll  confine  ourselves 
to  Gallery  F8.  Such  official  enthusiasm  must  be 
treated  with  the  highest  respect.  We,  as  duti- 
ful  " 

"But,"  interjected  Belinda,  "we  had  arranged  to 
see  the  Loyalty  procession,  and  then  we  were  going 
to  walk  across  the  park  to  make  acquaintance  with 
the  pictures  belonging  to  the  New  York  Historical 
Society." 

"Fine,"  I  said.     "We'll  do  all  three.     We'll  have 
241 


242  Art  and  I 

a  jolly  afternoon  of  sunshine,  loyalty,  pictures  and 
bibelots." 

Three  hours  later  Belinda  and  I  seated  ourselves 
on  the  sward  that  eases  toward  a  corner  of  the 
lake  in  Central  Park  and  prepared  to  converse.  A 
busy  water  rat  looked  at  us  for  a  moment  as  if 
saying — "Why  are  you  not  working?"  then  scuttled 
away;  a  squirrel  waited  at  a  safe  distance,  imagining 
that  when  two  people  sit  together  at  a  lakeside  they 
must  be  about  to  eat;  but  when  he  found  that  we 
were  only  talking  art  he  retired  to  a  tree. 
"Pierpont  Morgan  was  quite  an  extraordinary 
man,"  said  I;  "in  a  way  he  was  unique.  Collec- 
tors are  numerous,  but  usually  they  collect  one  kind 
of  thing.  Pierpont  Morgan  collected  everything 
in  the  art  way,  from  pictures  to  snuff-boxes,  from 
Gothic  sculptures  to  china  cups.  One  rule,  one 
only,  he  had — they  must  always  be  the  best.  To 
him  the  best  often  meant  the  costliest,  and  the  value 
of  many  of  the  things  he  acquired  was  their  rarity, 
not  their  artistic  achievement.  Now  art,  as  Whistler 
said,  is  a  goddess  of  dainty  thought,  reticent  of 
habit,  abjuring  all  obtrusiveness.  Daintiness  and 
reticence  are  not  the  notes  of  the  Morgan  collection, 
rather  prodigality  and  universality.  He  spoiled  the 
climes;  he  gathered  in  everything  that  the  artistic 
ingenuity  of  man  has  constructed.  The  result  is 
wonderful,  but  it  isn't  necessarily  art." 
"We  owe  a  great  debt  to  him,"  said  Belinda.  "Any 
museum,  in  any  country,  would  have  gone  on  its 
knees  to  acquire  the  treasures  that  are  now  grouped 
in  the  11  rooms  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum  'for 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  243 

the  instruction  and  pleasure  of  the  American  peo- 
ple'— beautiful  phrase  that." 

"True,"  said  I.  "Like  everybody  else  I  am  im- 
mensely grateful;  but  we  mustn't  lose  our  heads. 
We  must  exercise  wisdom,  and  express  ourselves 
with  judgment.  We  are  alone  here,  you  are  dis- 
cretion itself,  the  water  rat  and  the  squirrel  are 
busy  with  their  own  affairs,  so  I  can  say  what  I 
think.  In  spite  of  the  curator's  enthusiasm,  in  spite 
of  the  glowing  (but  rather  general)  accounts  in  the 
newspapers,  with  their  chatter  about  Merovingian 
and  Romanesque  art — mere  names,  mere  names — I 
was  bored  by  the  hour  I  spent  in  Gallery  F8." 
"Bored! — bored  in  a  room  which  contains  the 
Eenvenuto  Cellini  cup,  and  seven  examples  of  the 
priceless  Henri  II  ware !" 

Meekly  I  bowed  my  head.  "I  agree,"  I  said,  "that 
the  things  you  mention  are  great  rarities,  that  at  auc- 
tion they  would  fetch  enormous  prices,  because  there 
are  a  dozen  collectors  in  the  world  who  would  give 
almost  anything  to  possess  them;  but  I  submit  that 
they  are  not  art.  They  are  examples  of  work  by 
extremely  able  craftsmen,  whose  chief  concern  was 
to  show  their  extraordinary  cleverness.  These 
things  are  not  in  the  same  class  as  'the  fan  of  Hoku- 
sai'  or  'the  marbles  of  the  Parthenon.'  I  doubt, 
always  have  doubted,  if  Cellini  was  an  artist  at  all. 
Was  he  anything  more  than  a  first-rate,  rather 
fulsome  craftsman?  It  is  the  man,  the  ebullient, 
swaggering,  fearless  man,  not  the  craftsman,  who 
has  dominated  the  world.  That  cup  of  his  in  Gal- 
lery   F8,    *in  red    jasper    ornamented    with    gold, 


244  ^^^  ^nd  I 

enamel  and  jewels,'  is  merely  the  expression  of 
very  competent  fingers  and  a  rather  vulgar  mind. 
Why,  you  yourself  went  into  ecstasies  over  the  thin- 
ness with  which  the  jasper  had  been  carved.  That 
isn't  art — it's  expert  craftsmanship. 
"And  the  other  innumerable  'objects  of  art'  in  this 
Gallery  F8 — precious,  priceless,  many  of  them,  yes, 
but  their  value  is  one  of  oddness,  overloaded  rich- 
ness and  rarity.  Art  is  a  different  thing  altogether 
— shy,  reticent,  unobtrusive.  Art  demands  form, 
colour  and  right  proportion,  and  there  must  be  no 
vanity  in  the  worker.  Almost  all  the  things  in  this 
Gallery  F8  are  vain  things,  little  magnificence  piled 
upon  little  magnificence,  each  and  all  proclaiming 
how  clever  was  the  man  who  made  them.  Why, 
the  only  things  there  that  gave  me  real  pleasure 
were  the  two  pieces  of  Medici  porcelain,  fine  in 
form  and  colour,  early  specimens  of  this  ware — shy, 
reticent,  unobtrusive.  I  salute  them  as  art,  but  I 
will  not  bow  the  knee  to  the  many  vain  and  precious 
things  in  Gallery  F8.  They  bored  me  because  they 
are  not  art — that's  the  simple  reason." 
"Then  why,"  said  Belinda,  "was  the  curator  so 
enthusiastic?  He  ought  to  know." 
I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "He  lives  among  such 
things,  always  has.  They've  hypnotised  him. 
Every  man  to  his  taste,  I  seem  to  be  becoming 
a  scold.  It  can't  be  helped.  The  War  made  me 
eager  to  get  at  the  right  view  of  things.  Constantly 
I  meet  with  attempts  to  camouflage  art,  not  with 
intent  to  deceive,  but  because  there  seems  to  be  an 
impression   that  in   art   matters  j^ou   can   lead   the 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  245 

public  to  believe  anything  if  only  you  are  insistent 
enough. 

"The  Latin  races  understand  art  instinctively;  the 
Anglo-Saxon  has  an  immense  respect  for  art,  but,  as 
a  rule,  he  has  little  instinct  for  it.  You  and  I 
enjoyed  ourselves  at  the  New  York  Historical 
Society,  because  like  Henry  Hudson  we  were 
explorers  and  unlike  him  we  knew  where  we  were. 
When  I  write  up  my  diary  tonight  I  shall  say 
something  like  this — 'Visited  New  York  Historical 
Society  for  first  time.  New  building — collection  of 
pictures  on  upper  floor — badly  shown — one  wall  in 
blinding  light,  the  other  in  shadow — seven  eighths 
of  the  pictures  ordinary — one-eighth  remarkable — 
among  them  half  a  dozen  masterpieces — Memlinc, 
Mantegna,  Diirer,  Mabuse,  etc. — these  are  hung 
anyhow,  mixed  up  with  others  as  if  they  were 
ordinary  pictures — a  third-rate  Murillo  in  alcove  by 
itself — was  told  it  had  been  hung  there  because  it 
fitted  the  space — strange  it  is  how  little  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  knows  about  art.' 

"Those  will  be  my  notes,"  said  I.  "Of  course  we 
enjoyed  the  adventure  because  we  have  been  trained 
to  discover  masterpieces.  But  this  unintelligent  way 
of  showing  pictures  is  wrong.  The  public  is  not 
instructed.  I  think  a  leaf  should  be  taken  from  the 
book  of  excellent  Artemus  Ward.  When  he  was 
guilty  of  a  'plaisanterie'  it  was  his  way  to  add  in 
parenthesis,  'N.  B.  This  is  a  goak.'  Why  should 
not  the  Historical  Society  affix  to  the  frame  of  each 
of  these  outstanding  pictures — 'N.  B.  This  is  a 
masterpiece'?     Then  the  public  would  begin  to  be 


246  Art  and  I 

perplexed  and  to  ask  questions ;  then  might  begin  an 
intelligent  interest  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  art," 
"A  counsel  of  perfection,"  said  Belinda,  rising  be- 
cause a  sailor  and  his  sweetheart  had  just  nosed 
their  boat,  thinking  they  were  alone,  into  the  se- 
cluded spot.  "You  aim  high,  sir." 
"What  else  am  I  here  for?  Of  course  I  aim  high. 
Doing  so,  I  may  hit  the  bull's-eye,  like  Fromentin 
when  he  wrote.  Whereas,  if  I  aim  low,  I  remain 
merely  a  healthy,  unintelligent  Anglo-Saxon." 


10.     PESELLINO  BY  THE  SEA 

WILL  you  walk  down  to  the  sea?"  shouted 
the  Painter  from  the  garden  gate. 
Seated  in  the  doorway  of  my  cottage,  I  hesitated. 
It  was  8:15  P.  M.  The  soft  phlox  and  the  strident 
tiger-lilies  still  held  the  light.  The  hot  day  was 
declining  with  exquisite  serenity.  Here  and  there 
a  few  fireflies  winked  into  flame.  Really  I  did 
not  want  to  walk  down  to  the  sea;  I  was  reading 
something  which  held  me  pleasantly.  It  was  about 
a  Florentine  painter,  hardly  known  to  the  general 
public,  mildly  patronised  by  connoisseurs,  for  he 
is  far  from  being  a  great  swell — this  Francesco 
Pesellino,  1422-1457. 

Pesellino  is  one  of  those  painters  whose  biography 
looks  all  titles  of  pictures,  and  names  of  painters 
and  owners,  so  tiresome  to  most  people.  Here  is  a 
specimen  from  the  National  Gallery  of  London 
catalogue.  "A  closer  resemblance  to  Filippo  Lippi 
is  seen  in  his  crucifixion  (Berlin),  the  Highnam 
Court  'Annunciation';  the  'Madonna  and  Saints' 
on  a  gold  ground  (private  collection  Berlin),  the 
'Marriage  of  St.  Catherine'  in  the  Uffizi,  and 
especially  in  the  'Holy  Trinity  with  Saints  and 
Angels'  painted  in  1457  for  the  Church  of  the 
Trinity  of  Pistoia.  The  central  part  of  the  'Holy 
Trinity'  is  in  the  National  Gallery;  the  rest  scat- 
247 


248  Art  and  I 

tered  in  diverse  places — in  the  Royal  collection,  in 
Lady  Henry  Somerset's,  in  Lady  Brownlow's,  and 
in  private  hands  in  Italy." 

I  smiled.  "What  would  a  Doughboy  make  of 
that?"  I  asked  myself.  "But  the  National  Gallery 
catalogue,  the  best  art  collection  catalogue  in  the 
world,  was  not  written  for  Doughboys.  It  was 
written  for  individuals  like  myself. 
This  Pesellino  is  a  shade,  a  collection  of  titles,  places, 
and  names;  it  would  really  be  rather  interesting 
to  give  him  flesh  and  bones,  ideas  and  fancies,  to  fix 
him  in  the  mind  as  something  more  definite  than 
the  grandson  of  Giuliano  d'Arrigo  Giuochi  and  the 
pupil  of  Fra  Angelico  and  Fra  Filippo  Lippo — to 
give  the  scene  of  his  life  colour,  to  make  Pesellino  a 
real  person  doing  natural  things  between  painting 
his  second-rate  sacred  pictures  which  the  art  gal- 
leries of  today  prize  in  bits  when  they  cannot  get 
the  whole  thing." 

"Hurry  up!"  shouted  the  Painter.  "I  want  to  walk 
down  to  the  sea." 

On  the  way  I  continued  my  reflections  aloud,  after 
explaining  to  the  Painter  what  I  had  been  reading — 
"This  Pesellino  does  not  strike  me  as  having  been  a 
particularly  pious  person ;  he  had  to  paint  sacred  pic- 
tures as  our  artists  had  to  paint  war  pictures.  Of 
course,  he  must  have  been  enormously  impressed 
by  Fra  Angelico,  who  was  a  wonder;  but  it  was 
Angelico's  craftsmanship,  not  his  saintliness,  that 
Pesellino  admired.  I  fancy  that  he  had  his  eye  on 
the  world  all  the  time  that  he  was  painting  the 
'Virgin  and  the  Child  with  Saints,'  owned  by  Sir 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  249 

George  Holford  which  we  have  both  seen.  It's 
under  a  foot  high;  it's  hardly  more  than  a 
miniature,  and  only  one  of  the  eight  figures 
has  any  kind  of  spirit,  the  boy  Saint  in  ar- 
mour, Michael,  I  suppose,  who  stands  to  the  right, 
pouting,  and  surely  somewhat  impatient  of  the  cere- 
mony. Like  Foch,  he  doesn't  like  showing  off. 
Looking  at  this  panel  carefully,  I  feel  that  the  parts 
of  the  picture  that  Pesellino  was  really  interested 
in  was  the  armour  which  the  pretty  warrior  saint 
wears,  the  star  on  the  Virgin's  shoulder,  and  the 
little  flowers  on  the  grass  plot  where  the  group  is 
posed." 

"Yes,  I  noticed  those  flowers,"  said  the  Painter. 
"They're  formal,  but  they're  very  pretty.  The 
pattern  is  like  a  chintz.  I  suppose  many  of  these 
early  men  would  have  painted  nature  if  they'd  been 
allowed." 

"Yes,  but  it's  queer  what  a  lot  of  excellent  people 
have  thought  that  landscape  painting  is  infra  dig. 
Botticelli  despised  it,  Burne-Jones  sneered  at  it, 
and  Carlyle  was  contemptuous.  He  said — 'Land- 
scape painting,  if  you  think  of  it,  is  a  poor  thing 
in  comparison  with  other  painting  or  even  with 
nature  herself.'  Yet  when  he  said  this,  Carlyle  was 
looking  at  the  very  views  that  inspired  some  of 
Whistler's  most  exquisite  things.  But  there  is  no 
need  to  defend  landscape  painting  today.  Every- 
body's doing  it.  They  tell  me  it's  rather  easy." 
The  Painter  smiled.  "It's  what  you  like,  astonish- 
ingly easy,  or  immensely  difficult.    It  depends  how 


250  Art  and  I 

you  do  it.  But  we've  wandered  away  somewhat 
from  Pesellino." 

"True,"  I  said.  "Pesellino  seldom  let  himself  go,  but 
when  he  did  he  was  like  a  boy  released  from  school. 
Do  you  know  his  'Story  of  David  and  Goliath'  and 
'The  Triumph  of  David'?  They  were  not  painted 
for  a  church,  so  he  could  let  his  fancy  play:  a 
Florentine  could  say  what  he  liked  on  the  panel 
of  a  marriage  chest.  Pesellino's  narrative  is  as 
amusing  and  detailed  as  the  episodes  in  Frith's 
'Derby  Day,'  or  in  Paolo  Uccello's  'Moonlight 
Hunt.'  Uccello  was  born  quarter  of  a  century 
before  Pesellino;  he  was  a  far  greater  artist.  My 
word,  yes!  Still  Pesellino's  'Triumphs'  are  de- 
lightful, and  I  guess  that  they  represent  the  real 
man,  a  bright  creature  who  was  more  interested  in 
the  look  of  things  than  in  the  meaning  behind  them. 
I  am  sure  he  wore  pretty  clothes,  had  adventures, 
roamed  the  hills  about  Florence,  studied  rain  clouds, 
and  began  to  notice  how  objects  are  affected  by 
light  and  atmosphere." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  asked  the  Painter. 
"Pesellino  seems  to  me  to  be  merely  one  of  those 
second-raters  who  copied  their  betters,  and  painted 
on  panels,  with  considerable  skill,  the  traditional 
types  that  the  monks  understood,  and  wanted — they 
wanted  nothing  else." 

"When  you  next  visit  New  York,"  I  answered, 
"drop  in  to  the  Metropolitan  Museum  and  look 
at  the  Pesellino  that  has  recently  been  acquired — a 
Crucifixion.  The  figures  are  of  the  usual  kind, 
done  to  order,  without  passion,  without  feeling 
even,  quite  proper.     But  beyond  the  hill,  the  artist, 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  251 

sub  rosa,  as  it  were,  has  dropped  in  a  landscape.  The 
rocks  in  the  foreground  are  the  rocks  that  Duccio 
and  all  the  early  chaps  painted,  following  one  an- 
other like  sheep,  and  the  pines  and  cypresses  are 
those  that  Fra  Angelico  did  so  neatly;  but  when 
Pesellino  painted  the  horizon  and  the  sky,  and  the 
wisps  of  clouds  he  let  himself  go  as  in  the 
'Triumph'  pictures.  He  has  suggested  rain 
clouds,  and  has  made  the  horizon,  boldly,  the 
lightest  part  of  the  picture,  and  if  you  look  very 
closely  you  will  see  that  he  was  conscious  of  the 
atmosphere  that  unites  and  relates  everything — that 
atmospheric  envelopment  without  which  a  picture 
has  no  mystery." 

Here  our  talk  ceased,  for  we  had  reached  the  sea, 
and  were  seated  upon  a  bench  in  front  of  the  bath- 
ing boxes.  Although  it  was  a  few  minutes  past 
9  o'clock  the  swimmers  were  still  diving  from  the 
raft  quite  far  out  at  sea,  and  cleaving  through  the 
opalescent  water.  It  was  a  scene  of  great  beauty. 
All  definition  had  gone  from  the  figures  upon  the 
raft;  sea,  sky,  swimmers,  that  island  of  the  greenest 
grass,  that  white  boat,  were  all  harmonised  in  the 
magical  atmospheric  envelopment. 
The  Painter  gazed  with  the  light  of  contemplative 
ecstasy  upon  his  face,  and  I  said — "That's  beyond 
Pesellino."  I  added,  "There  are  two  men  who 
might  have  done  it,  who  might  have  done  this 
scene  something  like  justice." 

The  Painter  looked  at  me  and  I  looked  at  the 
Painter,  and  then  we  said,  almost  in  unison  (it 
was  really  rather  odd) — "Vermeer  of  Delft,  and 
Whistler." 


11.    EL  GRECO'S  MODERNITY 

NO  MAN  ever  calls  him  by  his  real  name;  no 
man  ever  says,  "What  an  astonishing  painter 
Domenico  Theotocopuli"  was;  the  bevy  of  young 
ladies  (advanced  schoolgirls)  who  fluttered  into  the 
photograph  room  of  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
New  York,  and  listened  ardently,  while  their  Mis- 
tress discussed  his  artistic  relationship  to  Tintoretto, 
never  once  called  him  Theotocopuli.  To  them  he 
was  El  Greco — the  Greek — as  he  is,  and  was,  to 
everybody.  The  Spaniards  first  called  him  El  Greco 
simply  because  they  couldn't  pronounce  Theoto- 
copuli. 

El  Greco  is  the  very  latest  influence  in  Montmartre, 
at  the  Slade  School,  and  in  the  studios  around  about 
Washington  Square.  Velasquez,  Titian,  Rem- 
brandt are,  of  course,  all  right  in  the  eyes  of  these 
young  enthusiasts;  but  they  are  finished,  deified, 
pigeonholed;  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said  or 
done  about  them.  They  are  safe  on  Olympus,  but 
they  are  not  in  the  modern  movement,  no !  El 
Greco  is,  immensely  so.  Has  not  Roger  Fry  linked 
him  up  with  Cezanne,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
three  centuries  or  so  separate  them  ?  But  what  are 
centuries  in  art?  El  Greco's  alleged  affinity  with 
Cezanne  gave  him  the  final  push  into  his  niche  in 
the  modern  movement.  It  was  Roger  Fry  who 
252 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  253 

propelled  him  there.  He  tells  us  that  when  von 
Tschudi,  the  eminent  Swiss  art  critic  (he  who 
was  deposed  by  the  former  Kaiser  for  admiring 
Van  Gogh),  was  showing  him  El  Greco's 
"Laocoon,"  which  he  had  just  bought  for  Munich, 
von  Tschudi  murmured,  "Do  you  know  why  we 
admire  El  Greco's  handling  so  much?  Because  it 
reminds  us  of  Cezanne." 

And  in  the  spring  of  1920  El  Greco  created  a 
rumpus  (George  Eliot  uses  the  word,  so  I  may) 
in  London.  The  National  Gallery  already  owned 
two  El  Grecos.  The  Director  acquired  a  third  from 
Spain,  an  "Agony  in  the  Garden."  He  hung  it  in 
the  newly  arranged  Spanish  Room:  no  sooner  was 
it  placed  there  than  the  rumpus  began,  but  with 
tongues,  not  with  fists.  I  am  told  that  crowds 
gathered  before  this  picture ;  that  groups  harangued 
groups;  that  violent  altercations  took  place.  In- 
deed, it  would  seem  that  there  was  a  repetition,  in 
little,  of  the  scenes  that  occurred  at  the  first 
exhibition  of  the  Post-Impressionist  pictures  in  the 
Grafton  Galleries. 

Mr.  Roger  Fry  was,  of  course,  delighted.  In  The 
Athenccum  he  devoted  four  solid  columns  to  "The 
New  El  Greco  at  the  National  Gallery."  He  said 
that  it  gave  the  British  public  an  electric  shock; 
that  people  argued  and  discussed  it  and  lost 
their  tempers;  that  they  talked  of  it  as  if  it  were  a 
contemporary  picture — "a  thing  about  which  they 
have  a  right  to  feel  delighted  or  infuriated,  as  the 
case  may  be."  He  also  called  "The  Agony  in  the 
Garden"  "a  superb  masterpiece." 


-■w'l   »ii>ii^' 


254  Art  and  I 

Let  us  look  a  little  closely  at  this  El  Greco,  this 
Domenico  Theotocopuli,  who  was  painting  vigor- 
ously at  Toledo,  in  Spain,  in  the  year  1600,  and 
who,  in  1920,  seems  to  artists  "not  merely  modern  ; 
but  actually  appears  a  good  many  steps  ahead  of 
us,  turning  back  to  show  us  the  way." 
He  was  born  at  Candia,  in  Crete,  about  1545.  It 
is  strange  to  think  that  the  boy  may  have  played 
above  the  buried  palaces  of  Knossos,  Phaistos,  and 
Hajia  Triada;  above  their  treasures,  2,000  and  more 
years  old,  hidden  deep  beneath  his  feet.  Many  of 
them  are  now  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum.  The 
small  boy  did  not  see  them,  did  not  concern  himself 
with  their  existence.  The  sixteenth  centurj'  was 
not  interested  in  excavations.  Stiff,  angular 
Byzantine  art  was  the  fashion  then,  and  had 
Domenico  stayed  in  Crete,  had  he  been  like  the 
other  Cretan  youths,  he  would  probably  have 
painted  pictures  in  the  orthodox  Byzantine  manner 
that  had  prevailed  for  a  thousand  years. 
We  know  nothing  about  El  Greco's  youth,  and  little 
about  his  after  life;  but  it  is  clear  that  in  1570,  at 
the  age  of  25,  he  shipped  to  Venice,  and  there 
entered  the  studio  of,  or  became  the  pupil  of  Titian, 
who  was  then  93.  Of  a  certainty  Domenico  was 
a  forceful  youth.  It  needed  courage  to  offer  him- 
self to  the  mighty  Titian.  The  same  year  he  was 
in  Rome.  No  doubt  he  showed  around  the  letter 
that  he  carried  from  Julio  Clovis  to  Cardinal 
Farnese-Viterbo  beginning — "There  has  arrived  in 
Rome  a  young  man  from  Candia,  a  disciple  of 
Titian,  of  rare  talent.  .  .  ." 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  255 

Five  years  later,  in  1575,  no  man  knows  why,  he 
voyaged  to  Spain,  settled  in  Toledo,  and  lived  there 
till  1614,  when  his  career  ended.  Although 
Philip  II  does  not  seem  to  have  favoured  El  Greco, 
he  was  esteemed  in  Toledo  and  received  many  com- 
missions. He  signed  his  pictures  in  Greek,  which 
shows  that,  though  a  voluntary  exile,  he  did  not  for- 
get his  homeland.  Pacheco,  who  visited  him  in  1611, 
has  recorded  that  El  Greco  was  in  all  things  as 
singular  as  in  his  painting,  also  that  he  was  of  an 
extravagant  disposition,  a  great  philosopher  and 
given  to  witty  sayings. 

For  nearly  three  centuries  he  was  disowned,  for- 
gotten, although  there  were  always  some  who 
paused  before  his  pictures  in  Madrid,  Toledo,  and 
elsewhere  (they  were  often  catalogued  under  other 
names)  to  wonder  at  his  strange,  elongated 
figures,  and  the  fire  and  fury  of  his  handling.  He 
came  into  his  kingdom  in  1908,  when  Manuel  B. 
Cossio  published  in  Madrid  his  important  work  on 
"El  Greco."  Later,  in  1911,  one  of  Don  Manuel's 
pupils,  San  Roman  y  Fernandez,  hunted  Toledo  for 
records  of  the  painter.  He  discovered  and  published 
80  new  documents — lawsuits,  contracts,  receipts — 
described  in  his  "El  Greco  in  Toledo."  These 
documents  contain  nothing  of  importance,  except  a 
reference  to  his  "straitened  circumstances  and  wide 
reading,"  and  that  when  he  passed  away  there  were 
120  pictures  in  his  studio. 

What,  then,  is  the  meaning  of  the  El  Greco 
hubbub?  Why  do  the  art  crowds  in  London  rage? 
Why,  when  you  mention  the  name  of  El  Greco  in 


i^m  ■iBifcn*  ni  a— MPBXMt^ 


256  Art  and  I 

any  group  of  artists  who  are  alive  to  the  modern 
movement  (I  mean  in  those  studio  talks  when  men 
blurt  out  what  they  really  think  and  feel)  does  a 
mention  of  El  Greco  send  them  foraging  in  port- 
folios and  scrapbooks;  and  when  the  things  are 
found,  holding  them  up  with  expressive  move- 
ments of  the  thumb,  with  the  lighting  of  the  eyes, 
and  the  uplifting  of  the  artistic  consciousness,  that 
is  so  much  more  effective  than  words. 
I  admit  that  it  needs  some  art  education  to  ap- 
preciate El  Greco.  It  is  easy  to  say  much  against 
him — the  fatal  word  Baroque,  his  melodrama,  his 
rhetoric,  his  apparent  carelessness,  his  repetitions, 
his  exaggerated  religiosity.  Portraits  and  religious 
pictures  sum  up  his  oeuvre,  and  the  religiosity  of 
Spain  in  the  late  sixteenth  and  early  seventeenth 
centuries  is  something  very  alien  to  the  modern 
mind. 

Other  painters  of  his  time  had  the  Baroque  temper- 
ament, and  the  rhetorical  flourish,  such  men  as 
Caravaggio,  and  Bassano;  but  El  Greco  stands 
away  from  them — isolated,  apart.  He  has  some- 
thing of  Van  Gogh's  intensity,  something  of  Tin- 
toretto's fury.  The  work  of  this  lonely  painter,  this 
exile,  working  in  far  Toledo  300  years  ago,  shows 
that  he  had  faced,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
many  of  the  problems  that  affront  the  modern  artist 
— the  effect  of  one  colour  upon  another,  such  as  the 
subtle  change  that  comes  from  putting  red  against 
blue;  the  interplay  of  planes;  distortion  and  em- 
phasis; light  and  shade  used  arbitrarily;  values 
disregarded,  colour  used  at  will.     Briefly,  although 


The  Art  of  Yesterday  1^% 

a,  naturalist,  he  was  also  an  expressionist,  willing  to 
break  any  rule  so  that  he  might  express  significant 
form  in  the  quickest  and  most  direct  way.  These 
are  the  reasons  why  El  Greco  has  been  annexed 
by  the  Modernists,  and  why  the  Great  Public,  which 
does  not  want  change,  which  wants  illustration,  not 
expression,  argues  hotly  with  the  Modernists  in  the 
Spanish  Room  of  the  London  National  Gallery, 
El  Greco  is  in  the  limelight.  I  notice  that  people 
are  beginning  to  linger  before  his  "Nativity"  at 
the  Metropolitan  Museum.  Not  one  of  his  best,  this 
picture  has  all  his  virtues  and  all  his  faults.  Its 
flambo5'ancy,  its  rhetoric,  are  obvious,  pass  them 
by.  But  note  its  rugged  intensity,  its  impulsive  use 
of  colour,  its  unreligious  but  dramatic  force,  and 
how  frankly  he  lights  the  whole  picture  from  the 
shining  aura  of  the  Child.  The  portrait  of  Pala- 
vicino  in  the  Boston  Museum  is  essential  Greco.  It 
has  a  piercing  reality,  an  actuality,  a  fervour  that 
we  do  not  find  even  in  Velasquez  or  Titian.  They 
are  dignified,  serene ;  they  are  in  repose.  El  Greco 
rushes  at  life  and  fixes  it  upon  the  canvas. 
And  one  day  another  El  Greco  came  into  view, 
came  to  startle.  Suddenly  I  saw  it  in  the  Spanish 
Room  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  New  York — 
an  anonymous  loan  to  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary 
Exhibition. 

This  "View  of  Toledo,"  how  modern  it  is;  how 
direct  the  planes  of  green;  how  daring  the  snaky, 
climbing  buildings;  how  menacing  the  sky;  how 
fearfully  this  El  Greco  flaunts  mere  accomplish- 
ment. 


258  Art  and  I 

All  my  days  El  Greco  has  fascinated  and  troubled 
me,  especially  the  elongated  heads  of  his  many 
figures,  rising  gauntly  from  thin,  ascetic  forms. 
There  is  the  Cardinal  in  the  National  Gallery, 
London,  with  the  gaunt,  narrow  face,  the  long, 
thin  head,  the  alert,  sad  eyes;  there  is  that  blue 
wonder,  an  emaciated  Saint  in  a  magnificent  desert 
once  owned  by  Sir  Hugh  Lane;  there  is  his  mas- 
terpiece in  the  Church  of  St.  Tome,  at  Toledo, 
"The  Burial  of  the  Count  of  Orgaz,"  with  its 
twenty  and  more  figures,  each  head  direct  and 
forcible,  a  realistic  picture,  eloquent  in  its  direct- 
ness and  characterisation. 

This,  his  masterpiece,  the  young  Velasquez  may  have 
seen,  must  have  seen.  Here  is  a  dream-picture  that 
the  mind  happily  harbours — the  young  Velasquez  at 
Toledo  looking  at  El  Greco's  masterpiece.  Now  we 
moderns  are  all  looking  at  El  Greco. 
He  links  yesterday  with  today. 


PART  IV 
ART  AND  MR.  X 


ART  AND  MR.  X 

1.     INTRODUCING  MR.  X 

1% /TR.  X  is  a  man  of  substance.  Inventor  of  the 
-^'-■-  Perfect  Bath  Tub  and  first  President  of  the 
Company,  he,  like  many  other  sCiccessful  business 
men,  is  now  modestly  patronising  Art.  He  has 
honoured  me  with  his  friendship.  I  am  becomingly 
grateful  and  amused. 

He  is  a  man  of  regular  habits,  and  likes  to  take 
his  constitutional  in  East  57th  Street,  New  York, 
between  Madison  and  Park  Avenues — "Spacious, 
sir,  and  not  without  dignity." 
We  often  meet  there.  I  seek  him.  On  a  recent 
occasion,  after  we  had  made  amiable  remarks  about 
the  weather,  and  reconstruction,  he  said: 
"I  know,  sir,  of  two  new  mammoth  hotels  which 
will  require  1,000  new  baths.  My  baths,  as  you 
are  aware,  are  works  of  art — applied  art  as  you 
term  it,  and  it  is  my  intention  as  a  thanksgiving 
for  a  successful  business  career  to  further  patronise 
the  fine  arts.  It  is  my  purpose  to  make  a  choice  col- 
lection of  American  and  British  pictures  in  honour 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  alliance,  and  I  should  esteem 
it  a  great  honour  if  you  would  give  me  the  benefit 
of  your  advice  and  assistance." 
261 


262  Jrt  and  I 

I  murmured  acquiescence. 

"Then,  with  your  leave,  sir,  we  will  adjourn  to 
my  apartment.  As  you  are  aware  it  is  nearby. 
"My  bath,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X,  when  we  were  comfort- 
ably seated,  "is  the  bath  of  the  future.  Founded  on 
the  classic  model,  yet  it  reflects,  and  is  in  harmony, 
with  the  spirit  of  the  day.  I  suppose  you  might 
call  it  a  Post-Impressionist  bath.  There  is  no 
rhetoric  about  it.  It  dips  deep  into  reality.  Yes, 
sir,  my  bath  is  a  pioneer;  it  is  the  bath  of  tomor- 
row, and  I  want  my  collection  of  American  and 
British  pictures  to  be  confined  to  such  works  as 
reflect  the  Art  of  Tomorrow.  How  should  I  be- 
gin? My  business  training  tells  me  that  it  would 
be  unwise  to  visit  the  artistic  haunts  and  say — 
'Gentlemen,  I  am  in  the  market  for  pictures  rep- 
resenting the  Art  of  Tomorrow.'  That  would 
never  do.  The  prices  would  at  once  jump.  What 
do  you  advise?" 

"Suppose,"  I  said,  "that  somebody  invented  a 
nickel  fitting  impervious  to  discolouration,  what 
would  you  do?" 

"I  should  investigate  the  invention,  sir;  study  it, 
make  experiments,  and  if  satisfactory  adopt  it  in 
my  factoiy." 

"An  excellent  plan.     Why  not  use  a  similar  pro- 
cedure in   making  your  collection   of   British   and 
American   pictures?     Why  not  begin  by  studying 
the  market?" 
"But  how?" 

A  sudden  idea  occurred  to  me.  I  withdrew  a  book 
from  my  pocket,  and  rapidly  turned  the  pages. 


Art  and  Mr.  X  26$ 

"What's  that?"  said  Mr.  X.  For  a  massive  busi- 
ness man  his  instincts  are  quick. 
"This,"  I  answered,  "is  a  new  magazine,  or  rather 
annual,  called  New  Paths.  It  is  one  of  those 
libations  to  the  muses  that  *les  jeunes'  are  wont 
to  issue  at  infrequent  intervals.  It  is  composed 
of  verse,  prose  and  pictures  of  the  Art  of  Tomor- 
row variety." 

"I  take  you,  sir.  But  what  has  this  to  do  with 
my  proposal  to  make  a  collection  of — er — advanced 
pictures?" 

"It  so  happens,"  I  answered,  "that  New  Paths 
contains  an  article  called  'Tendencies  in  Present 
Day  English  Art'  by  J.  G.  Fletcher.  I  do  not 
know  Mr.  Fletcher:  he  is  probably  young,  and 
being  young,  he  is  fearless  and  revolutionary;  he 
ignores  the  established  reputations  of  Great  Britain, 
disregards  the  Royal  Academicians  and  Associates 
of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  banishes  from 
his  survey  any  commendation  of  official  and 
academic  art  and  established  reputations.  You  and 
I,  Mr.  X,  being  men  of  established  reputation, 
cannot,  of  course,  indorse  all  that  our  young  friend 
says,  and  yet  I  do  not  altogether  disapprove  of 
his  artistic  Bolshevism." 

"It  seems  to  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X,  "that  this  essay 
should  contain  just  the  kind  of  information  that 
I  want." 

"Yes,  that  idea  occurred  to  me.     I  suggest  that  I 
should  give  you  the  gist  of  this  essay  on  'Tenden- 
cies in  Present  Day  English  Art.'  " 
Mr.  X  seated  himself  and  folded  his  hands. 


264  ^rt  ^nd  I 

I  proceeded — "The  writer  of  this  essay  begins  with 
a  platitude  which  is  always  worth  repeating.  He 
states  that  English  art,  like  English  literature,  has 
always  been  a  matter  of  individuals  rather  than 
of  schools:  he  instances  three  of  these  individuals. 
Turner  and  Constable,  whom  he  calls  daring  in- 
novators, and  Alfred  Stevens,  who  is  referred  to 
as  the  final  summing  up  of  a  great  tradition." 
Mr.  X  began  to  nod.  It  was  necessary  to  ac- 
celerate my  pace. 

"On  page  two  our  author  jumps  back  to  1913, 
and  announces  that  in  the  year  before  the  war 
England's  artistic  effort  revolved  about  the  poles 
of  Walter  Sickert  and  Augustus  John,  represent- 
ing realistic  impressionism  and  idealistic  decora- 
tion respectively." 

Mr.  X  withdrew  his  pocketbook  and  wrote  in  it 
with  a  gold  pencil  (I  looked  over  his  shoulder), 
"Poles — Augustus  Sickert  and  Walter  John." 
There  was  no  light  of  apprehension  in  his  eyes 
when  I  proceeded  to  read  to  him  that  Sickert  is 
entirely  a  product  of  French  Impressionism,  and 
that  the  oustanding  influence  upon  his  work  is 
that  of  Degas.  And  that  John  derives  through 
Ingres,  and  possibly  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  to  the 
Italian  primitives,  notably  to  the  Umbrian  painter, 
Piero  della  Francesca,  and  to  the  Florentine  Bot- 
ticelli. (  I  wonder  why  he  does  not  mention 
Cezanne.) 

Mr.  X  though  somnolent  was  still  shrewd,  "You 
tell  me,  sir,  that  English  art  is  a  matter  of  indi- 
viduals and  yet  you  confess  that  the  two  outstanding 


Art  and  Mr.  X  265 

personalities  in  1913  were  derivative,  markedly 
derivative." 

"A  hit,  Mr.  X,  a  palpable  hit,  but  these  two  men 
are  not  in  the  very  highest  class.  They  are  not 
great  originals  like  Turner  and  Constable,  but  if 
I  read  Mr.  Fletcher  aright  he  considers  that  they 
were  the  best  that  Great  Britain  could  show  in 
1913.  After  John  and  Sickert  our  independent 
author  proceeds  to  eulogise  another  pair — Wilson 
Steer  and  C.  J.  Holmes,  both  landscape  painters. 
Steer,  he  says,  has  carried  Constable's  daring  analy- 
sis of  atmosphere  vibration  to  a  point  where  his 
pictures  tend  to  lose  themselves,  to  be  without 
any  recognisable  form.  C.  J.  Holmes  has  main- 
tained a  more  conservative,  a  more  architectonic 
attitude." 

"Do  you  mind  spelling  that  word?"  said  Mr.  X, 
gold  pencil  in  hand. 
I  did  so. 

"These  four  men,  according  to  Mr.  Fletcher,  were 
showing  the  most  interesting  work  in  England 
before  the  war  broke  out.  On  the  eve  of  hostilities 
England  was  confronted  with  a  new  English  school, 
rejoicing  in  the  title  of  Vorticist,  who  loudly  pro- 
claimed that  to  them  Cubists  and  Futurists  were 
merely  Vieux  jeu.' " 

I  am  afraid  that  Mr,  X  took  "vieux  jeu"  to  be 
the  name  of  a  Vorticist  painter.  While  he  was 
correcting  the  error  I  hurried  on  to  this  statement — 
"What  the  war  accomplished  was  this:  it  showed 
us  that  there  were  many  new  ways  of  stating 
new  things,  and  then  raised  the  tremendous  and 


266  Art  and  I 

Insistently  vital  question,  'What,  then,  are  the  im- 
portant— the  essential — things  to  state?'  " 
"I  get  that,"  said  Mr.  X.  "The  same  problem 
confronted  me  in  my  taps  and  plugs.  A  new 
thing  must  be  stated  in  a  new  way,  but  it  must 
be  anchored  to  utility  and — er — conunon  sense. 
How  does  your  gentleman  answer  the  question  ?" 
"He  mentions  certain  artists  who,  according  to 
their  temperament,  in  various  days  have  sought  a 
solution  of  it.  He  instances  Nevinson,  described 
as  one  of  the  most  discussed  and  vitally  important 
artists  we  have  among  us:  he  acknowledges  Nevin- 
son's  debt  to  Cezanne,  who  proved  once  and  for 
all  that  one  can  paint  a  plate  of  apples  and  invest 
them  with  the  gravity  and  emotional  significance 
of  the  Pyramids.  He  also  includes  Paul  and  John 
Nash,  Anne  Estelle  Rice,  Ferguson,  and  Peploe, 
whose  work  is  interesting  as  showing  the  full  de- 
velopment of  that  chromatic  scale  of  rhythmical 
colour  which  was  perhaps  the  best  gift  French  Im- 
pressionism left  us.  He  also  refers  to  boisterous 
Gertler,  grim  Kramer  and  these  others — Roberts, 
KaufTer,  Fry,  Lewis,  Etchells,  Wadsworth,  Gill, 
Nina  Hammett,  Vanessa  Bell,  Brodzky,  Meninsky 
and  Schwabe." 

There  I  stopped,  waiting  while  Mr.  X  carefully 
copied  the  names  in  his  pocketbook. 
"When  I  visit  London,"  he  said,  "I  must  look  these 
gentlemen  up.  Where  can  I  find  them?" 
"Mr.  Roger  Fry  will  be  able  to  give  you  their 
addresses.  But  you  should  also  visit  the  Royal 
Academy,    the    New   English    Art    Club   and   the 


Art  and  Mr.  X  267 

National  Gallery  of  British  Art.  Mr.  Fletcher's 
taste  in  art  is  not  everybody's  taste." 
"I  will  go  slowly,"  said  Mr.  X.  "I  was  told 
many  years  ago  that  Edwin  Long  was  one  of  the 
bulwarks  of  British  art.  I  own  a  steel  engraving 
of  one  of  his  classical  productions.  I  associate 
the  name  of  Mr.  Long  with  a  witticism  which  I 
have  forgotten.  Do  you  recall  it?" 
"Yes,  somebody  said  that  art  is  long,  but  Long 
isn't  art." 

Mr.  X  laughed  long  and  heartily.  Then  he  re- 
lapsed into  silence,  and  I,  judging  that  the  moment 
of  his  afternoon  nap  was  approaching — withdrew. 


2.     MR.  X  AND  ADVANCED  ART 

AS  a  collector,  I  want  to  go  slowly,"  remarked 
Mr.  X  one  morning,  as  we  paced  the  spa- 
cious stretch  of  57th  St.  "My  'Perfect  Bath'  was 
the  work  of  years.  All  collectors,  I  am  informed, 
make  mistakes  at  the  beginning.  They  learn 
through  buying  the  wrong  pictures  and  the  wrong 
objects  of  art,  and  they  spend  years  in  sifting  out 
and  discarding  their  errors.  I  am  told,  sir,  that  if 
you  really  want  to  appreciate  a  public  gallery  or  a 
private  collection,  you  must  go  down  into  the  cel- 
lars and  examine  the — er — broken  steps  by  which 
they  have  ascended  to  their  present  pinnacle  of — 
er — good  taste." 

I  grasped  the  good  man's  hand.  "There  is  much 
wisdom  in  your  analysis,"  I  said.  "If  I  read  you 
aright,  Mr.  X,  you  want  to  correct  your 
errors  in  taste  without  depleting  your  bank  bal- 
ance: you  want  to  separate  the  goats  from  the 
sheep  in  your  mind,  not  on  the  walls  of  your 
gallery." 

"Precisely.  And  I  suggest,  sir,  that  when  you  make 
your  weekly  peregrinations  to  picture  galleries  you 
should  sometimes  allow  me  to  accompany  you.  I 
could,  as  it  were,  make  my  selections  in  my  head, 
and  3'^ou  could  approve  or  disapprove  of  my  choice." 
To  which  I  replied,  "An  excellent  plan.  We  will 
268 


Art  and  Mr.  X  269 

begin  at  once.  We  will  lunch  at  an  Automat,  al- 
ways an  adventurous  experience  (I  love  to  watch 
the  dignit)^  of  Mr.  X  in  untoward  environ- 
ment), and  then  we  will  visit  the  newest  exhibi- 
tions. I  have  three  on  my  list — the  twenty-ninth 
annual  exhibition  of  the  New  York  Water  Colour 
Club,  a  collection  of  lithographs  by  George  Bel- 
lows, and  the  Exhibition  of  Modern  Art  at  the 
Bourgeois  Galleries.  You  have  already  had  a  first 
lesson  in  current  British  painting;  today  we  will 
make  a  brief  survey  of  current  American  painting. 
But  please  remember  that  these  three  shows  are  in 
no  way  representative;  they  just  happen  to  be  three 
exhibitions  of  the  week." 

"I  take  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X.  "You  will  find 
me  an  attentive  pupil.  I  feel  like  Sir  Isaac  New- 
ton, who  asserted,  after  a  lifetime  of  work,  that 
he  had  examined  but  a  few  pebbles  upon  the  sea- 
shore w^hile  the  whole  truth  of  the  ocean  lay 
unexplored  before  him." 

It  was  edifying  to  watch  Mr.  X  making  a  business- 
like examination  of  the  331  exhibits  of  the  New 
York  Water  Colour  Club.  He  began  at  No.  1, 
"Rue  de  Fil,  Pontivy,  France."  First  he  read  the 
title,  then  he  looked  at  the  picture.  Occasionally 
he  placed  a  "g"  for  good  against  something  that 
pleased  him,  and  a  "b"  for  bad  against  something 
that  displeased  him;  he  showed  neither  elation  nor 
boredom;  he  examined  the  items  with  the  same 
care  that  he  would  give  to  the  items  in  a  plumb- 
er's catalogue,  and  w'hen  he  reached  No.  331,  he 
sighed,  fanned  himself,  replaced  his  gold  pencil,  and 


270  Art  and  I 

said — "May  I  ask,  sir,  if  you  consider  these  works 
examples  of  advanced  art?" 

"No!  This  club,  like  the  old  Water  Colour  So- 
ciety and  the  Institute  in  London,  represents  the 
timid,  temperate  Anglo-Saxon  at  his  best  and  at 
his  worst.  He  has  the  recipe:  he  can  repeat  it 
forever;  he  will  continue  to  produce  pretty  effects, 
picturesque  bits  and  genteel  sentiment.  It  is  not 
art;  it  is  making  pleasant  pictures.  They  will  al- 
ways be  popular,  but  as  they  are  neither  vital,  nor 
significant,  nor  'life-communicating,'  to  use  Mr. 
Berenson's  expressive  term,  they  remain  just  what 
they  are — pictures  of  the  day,  forgotten  in  a  day." 
"You  are  severe,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X.  "I  presume  you 
brought  me  here  to  show  me  the  kind  of  works  I 
should  avoid  in  forming  my  collection  of  advanced 
American  pictures." 

I  smiled.  "You  never  know  what  you  may 
draw  from  the  lucky  bag  of  art.  There  are  a 
few  pictures  here  that  stand  out,  that  show  a 
measure  of  originality.  No  doubt  you  have  ob- 
served them,  Mr.  X,  and  marked  them  in  your 
catalogue." 

With  rather  a  dazed  look  Mr.  X  ran  his  eyes 
down  the  scrawls  of  "g"  and  "b"  that  decorated 
his  catalogue.  He  handed  it  to  me. 
"Ah,"  I  said,  delightedly,  "your  art  sense,  Mr.  X, 
is  admirable.  I  observe  that  you  have  written  a 
'g'  against  Gifford  Beal's  series  of  six  water  colours. 
Quite  right.  They  are  spirited,  they  have  giisto, 
and  they  show  a  lively  sense  of  form  and  colour. 
And  you  have  written  'odd'  against  Lief  Neandross' 


Art  and  Mr.  X  271 

'Rabbits*  and  'Soaring  Bird.'  You  call  them  odd 
because  they  show  a  personal  observation.  The 
artist  has  not  looked  at  these  rabbits  and  that  soar- 
ing bird  in  the  common  way.  And  I  see  that  there 
is  a  hieroglyphic  which  may  mean  either  'g'  or  'b' 
against  Eugene  Higgins'  'The  Huns  Are  Coming' 
and  'The  Island  Fisherman.'  These  two  works 
have  attracted  your  attention.  Why?  Because 
they  have  power.  A  little  uncouth,  a  little  savage, 
yet  they  have  force,  and  that  means  a  good  deal 
nowadays.  It  is  the  apathetic,  anaemic  picture  that 
bores  us  and  makes  us  feel  that  we  never  again 
want  to  see  another  so-called  work  of  art." 
As  we  left  the  gallery  I  said  to  Mr.  X,  who  did 
not  seem  to  be  at  all  displeased  with  his  first  ad- 
venture as  art  critic,  "Now  we  will  go  downtown 
to  the  Keppel  Gallery  and  look  at  George  Bel- 
lows' collection  of  lithographs.  He  is  an  outstand- 
ing man,  an  athlete  and  a  musician,  I  am  told,  as 
well  as  an  artist,  and  your  collection  will  certainly 
have  to  include  a  Bellows." 

"Did  not  they  call  Tintoretto  the  Furious?"  asked 
Mr.  X,  when  we  had  examined  the  54  lithographs 
by  George  Bellows. 
"Yes." 

"Then  I  think  that  epithet  might  also  be  applied 
to  Mr.  Bellows.  He  appears  to  me  to  be  an  ar- 
tist of  great  virility  and  with  a  sombre,  almost 
brutal  imagination.  I  do  not  find  his  pictures 
sympathetic.  In  peace  time  I  am  a  pacificist,  sir, 
and  I  do  not  find  his  vivid  illustration  of  an 
episode  at  a  prize  fight,  called  'A  Stag  at  Sharkey's,' 


272  Art  and  I 

at  all  attractive.  I  may  be  quite  old-fashioned  and 
behind  the  times,  but  I  prefer  Mr.  Colin  Campbell 
Cooper's  sympathetic  'Old  House,  Westport,  Con- 
necticut,' which  we  have  just  seen  at  the  Water 
Colour  Club,  to  Mr.  Bellows'  violent  'Stag  at  Shar- 
key's.' I  fail  to  see,  sir,  why  advanced  art  should 
be  bellicose  and  brutal." 

"No  reason  at  all,"  I  said  quickly,  for  Mr.  X 
was  clearly  getting  a  little  out  of  hand,  "but  you 
must  take  an  artist  as  he  is.  Bellows  is  a  Ber- 
serker. He  puts  to  sea  in  any  weather:  he  plunges 
splendidly  at  any  theme.  I  am  grateful  for  his  art 
dash  and  bravery,  but  he  has  the  defects  of  his 
qualities.  Look  at  that  series  called  'Studies  in 
Belief.'  They  are  caricatures.  If  not  caricatures, 
if  meant  as  pictorial  statements,  they  fail  utterly. 
They  may  be  satire:  if  so,  we  have  outgrown  that 
kind  of  satire." 

"There  is  a  deal  more  in  art  than  I  imagined," 
said  Mr.  X,  as  we  strolled  uptown.  "Mere  pic- 
tures have  made  us  both  today  rather  angr>'.  That 
'Stag  at  Sharkey's'  enraged  me,  but  it  was  rather 
magnificent.  It  might  almost  be  taken  as  a  lesson 
against  physical  violence.  Of  course,  it  isn't  the 
kind  of  picture  one  could  hang  in  the  parlour.  Per- 
haps it  might  not  be  altogether  out  of  place  in  a 
corner  of  the  billiard  room.  I  am  interested  in  it 
unwillingly,  sir,  if  you  understand  what  I  mean." 
Mr.  X  was  destined  to  be  again  interested  un- 
willingly at  the  Bourgeois  Galleries,  which  con- 
cluded, for  the  day,  his  art  education. 


J 


Art  and  Mr.  X  273 

In  the  hushed  rooms,  into  which  no  sound  from 
the  outside  world  came,  Mr.  X  examined,  with 
particular  care,  the  groups  of  works  by  nine  ad- 
vanced American  artists.  He  made  no  marks  m 
his  catalogue,  but  when  he  had  finished  his  survey 
he  said  abruptly:  "Why  don't  they  finish  them? 
What  would  my  clients  say  if  I  sent  out  my  baths 
without  any  enamel  on  them?" 
"These  nine  men,"  I  answered,  "are  Expression- 
ists. They  maintain  that  a  work  of  art  is  finished 
when  the  artist  has  said  all  that  he  has  to  say." 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  X,  "that 
Mr.  Ben  Benn  has  said  all  he  has  to  say  in  that 
— er — suggestion  called  'Three  Figures  in  a 
Landscape'  ?" 

"Certainly.  He  gives  the  significant  statement 
of  three  figures  in  a  landscape,  the  skeleton,  the 
content  of  the  scene;  he  gives  the  significant  facts. 
Your  imagination  should  do  the  rest." 
Mr.  X  gazed  at  "Three  Figures  in  a  Landscape" 
with  an  intensity  that  was  almost  embarrassing. 
Then  he  arose  and  walked  into  the  farther  room. 
When  he  returned  he  gazed  again  at  the  "Three 
Figures  in  a  Landscape." 

"Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  it  is  beginning  to  in- 
terest me  more  than  Mr.  Colin  Campbell  Cooper's 
'Old  House,  Westport,  Connecticut'?" 
"Yes,"  I  answered,  "that  is  because  you  are  con- 
tributing something  yourself.  Your  imagination  is 
working." 
Mr.  X  looked  vastly  pleased.     "My  imagination 


274  ^'^t  ^^^  J 

working,"  he  repeated.  "I  wish  Mrs.  X  could  hear 
you." 

He  chuckled. 

"Come  into  the  end  room,"  he  said.  "There  is 
something  there  by  Mr.  Oscar  Bluemner  called 
'Red  House  with  Tree.'  It  isn't  a  house,  and  it 
isn't  a  tree.  The  tree,  I  tell  you,  sir,  isn't  like  a 
tree,  and  the  house  isn't  like  a  house,  and  yet  they 
are.  You  told  me  some  nonsense  the  other  day 
about  some  man  painting,  not  a  horse,  but  the 
horsiness  of  a  horse.  I  suppose  you  would  say 
that  this  man  Bluemner  in  this  idiotic  picture  has 
painted  the  treeiness  of  a  tree  and  the  houseiness 
of  a  house." 
"That  is  so." 

"Well!  Well!"  said  Mr.  X.  He  looked  at  the 
"Red  House  with  Tree"  again;  he  seemed  dis- 
turbed, but  not  displeased. 

Mr.  X  touched  the  bell  of  the  elevator.  "There's 
something  in  it,"  he  said,  as  we  descended  to  the 
street;  "there's  something  in  it,  but  how  am  I 
going  to  explain  them  to  my  wife  when  I  take  an 
armful  of  these  advanced  pictures  home?  Of 
course,  there's  always  the  billiard  room." 


3.     MR.  X  AND  PRESENTATION 

YOU  were  talking  the  other  day,"  said  Mr.  X, 
"of  Presentation.  You  spoke  with  some 
vigour.  Pray,  sir,  exactly  what  do  you  mean  by 
Presentation  in  regard  to  art?" 
As  he  spoke  Mr.  X  waved  his  gloved  hand  (his 
attire  is  always  correct  and  rather  formidable) 
around  the  room  wherein  we  were  sitting.  It  was 
an  interrogatory  gesture,  as  if  inviting  me  to  ex- 
press an  opinion  on  the  method  of  presenting 
pictures. 

The  room  where  we  sat  is  Mr.  X's  new  studio- 
apartment,  w^hich  will  eventually  contain  his  col- 
lection of  modern  pictures.  At  present  the  car- 
penters are  in  possession,  and  the  painters  are  due 
next  week.  It  is  a  long,  lofty  room  with  three 
handsome  windows  on  the  east  side,  and  another 
to  the  north.  The  blank  walls  are  being  panelled, 
and  the  panelling  will  provide  five  rectangular 
spaces,  each  about  five  feet  square,  for  the  presenta- 
tion of  pictures.  The  architect  knew  this:  he  has 
designed  these  spaces  for  pictures. 
But  you  must  not  infer  that  Mr.  X's  collection 
is  to  be  confined  to  five  works.  In  the  south  wall 
is  a  concealed  door.  Open  it  and  you  perceive 
a  small  chamber,  or  cubbj'-hole,  entirely  filled  with 
an  arrangement  of  racks.  These  racks  will  contain 
275 


276  Art  and  I 

at  least  fifty  pictures.  Do  you  begin  to  see  the 
method  of  presentation  ?  The  five  pictures  on  view 
will  be  changed  periodically.  But  Mr.  X,  who  is 
a  man  of  substance,  in  appearance  as  well  as  in 
pocket,  will  not  be  called  upon  to  endure  the  vio- 
lent exercise  of  moving  his  pictures.  He  will  seat 
himself  in  an  Adam  chair  before  an  Adam  cabinet 
which  contains  a  card  catalogue  of  his  collection 
compiled  by  an  expert  (ahem!).  Each  picture  is 
described:  its  tendency,  and  what  it  stands  for  is 
given,  together  with  some  information  about  the 
artist,  and  his  standing  among  his  contemporaries. 
According  to  his  mood,  or  the  disposition  of  the 
guests  whom  he  is  expecting,  Mr.  X  will  select 
the  appropriate  pictures.  Obviously  the  group 
chosen  for  his  famous  "Culture  is  halfway  to 
Heaven"  parties,  will  not  suit  a  gathering  of  his 
associates  in  the  hardware  world.  The  man  who 
adores  Botticelli  is  not  likely  to  have  the  same 
taste  as  the  man  who  is  addicted  to  inventing  im- 
provements in  bathtubs.  Mr.  X,  seated  in  his 
Adam  chair,  makes  his  sensitive  choice,  and  then 
relegates  the  task  of  changing  the  pictures  to  his 
admirable  man  servant,  who,  being  of  English 
birth,  realizes  that  there  is  a  service  which  is  per- 
fect freedom. 

So  when  Mr.  X  waved  his  gloved  hand  with 
inimitable  interrogatory  gesture  around  the  apart- 
ment, I  nodded  affirmatively,  and  then,  when  the 
noise  of  the  carpenters'  hammers  had  ceased,  it 
being  on  the  stroke  of  their  dinner  hour,   I  pro- 


Art  and  Mr.  X  277 

ceeded  to  answer  his  question  as  to  what  I  meant 
by  Presentation  in  regard  to  art. 
"The  world  knows  little,"  I  began,  "about  the 
presentation  of  pictures,  and  cares  less.  It  is  a 
very  important  subject,  and  it  is  almost  disregarded. 
The  names  of  Hanging  Committees  are  printed,  not 
without  honour,  in  catalogues,  but  the  trend  of  con- 
vention is  so  strong  that  the  hanging  usually  con- 
sists merely  in  covering  every  available  square  yard 
with  pictures.  Before  the  war  some  curators  were 
beginning  to  practise  the  new  and  proper  method 
of  presenting  pictures.  Well  do  I  remember  an 
exhibition  in,  I  think,  Munich,  in  1912.  It  was  a 
show  of  modern  works:  it  was  held  in  brand-new 
exhibition  rooms  situated  in  a  park,  one  line  of 
pictures  only,  a  space  between  each  work.  To 
each  room  were  two  doors:  they  opened  into  a 
sunny,  happy  world.  People  strolled  in  and  out. 
Ennui  was  unknown.  Art  was  a  part  of  life — 
fresh,  stimulating,  as  life  giving,  as  impulsive  as 
flowers  and  trees.  Those  pictures  were  properly 
presented.  Consequently  they  sold  well.  Folk  said 
— Let  us  transfer  this  joy  to  our  homes.  See?" 
"I  take  you,"  said  Mr.  X.  "I  take  you"  is  his 
favourite  remark.  He  likes  it  because  it  is  a  com- 
bination of  humility  and  understanding. 
"Contrast  with  this  exhibition,"  I  continued,  "the 
shows  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  London,  and  the 
National  Academy  of  Design  in  New  York.  You 
enter  from  noisy  streets ;  once  inside  you  are  trapped 
like  a  rat  in  a  cage.     There  is  an  air  of  confine- 


278  Jrt  and  I 

ment,  of  being  forced,  for  an  afternoon,  to  digest 
pictures.  You  have  to  swallow  art;  there  is 
no  escape  from  art  presented  in  the  most  bour- 
geois manner  imaginable.  The  selecting  and  hang- 
ing committee  may  have  been  at  work,  but  there 
is  no  sign  of  it.  Dimly  you  know  that  so-called 
important  pictures  are  hung  upon  the  line,  but  a 
tyro  in  art  soon  learns  that  important  pictures,  if 
they  do  not  happen  to  be  signed  by  important 
names,  are  placed  anywhere  except  upon  the  line. 
The  rule  seems  to  be — so  much  wall  space  to  be 
covered,  so  many  pictures  to  cover  it,  let  the  filling- 
in  process  be  as  complete  as  possible.  Can  you 
wonder  that  the  public  is  bored  by  picture  gal- 
leries? The  dealers  are  beginning  to  realise  the 
importance  of  presentation.  The  Flaxman  draw- 
ings at  Messrs.  Scott  &  Fowles'  were  perfectly  pre- 
sented. Even  the  specially  designed  frames  were 
a  joy.  Result — almost  all  M^ere  sold.  Messrs. 
Knoedler  have  been  showing  five  Sargents  and  four 
Abbott  Thayers  in  their  large  gallery.  They,  too, 
were  perfectly  presented.  In  a  vast  exhibition  the 
exquisite  Sargent  Simplon  landscape  and  the 
Thayer  monumental  landscape  would  have  been 
lost.  Here  they  told:  they  showed  themselves 
to  be  outstanding  works.  A  companion  Thayer 
landscape  has  been  lately  acquired  by  the  Metro- 
politan Museum.  It  is  probably  a  better  work 
than  the  Knoedler  Thayer.  I  have  studied  them 
both.  The  Metropolitan  Museum  Thayer  is  skied. 
People  pass  it  by.  It  makes  no  impression.  The 
Knoedler  Thayer  arrests  everybody." 


Art  and  Mr.  X  279 

"I  take  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X.  "Some  day  I  will 
ask  you  to  come  downtown  and  see  my  shower 
baths."  He  bent  toward  me:  his  voice  dropped 
to  a  whisper — "At  certain  hours  of  the  day,"  he 
murmured,  "we  have  the  water  running." 
"Governments,"  I  continued,  "being  absolutely  and 
complacently  devoid  of  taste,  naturally  ignore  pres- 
entation. The  hanging  of  the  exhibition  of  British 
naval  pictures  was  sad.  If  half  the  number  had 
been  shown,  and  properly  displayed,  the  patriotic 
effect  would  have  been  increased  50  per  cent.  A 
bricklayer  or  a  paperhanger  could  have  arranged 
the  innumerable  'works  of  art'  of  the  Allied  War 
Salon  quite  as  well  as  they  are  shown  at  the  Ameri- 
can Art  Galleries.  Interminable  rooms!  Inter- 
minable things  to  show !  Mix  them  up !  That 
was  the  idea:  that  was  done.  I  plodded  through 
the  rooms,  as  if  on  a  walking  tour.  When  I 
reached  the  end  I  said  to  myself,  'There  is  one 
great  talent  in  this  show — Raemaekers,  the  Dutch 
cartoonist  of  genius.  In  art  he  is  the  hero  of 
the  great  war.  His  series  of  cartoons  should  have 
been  featured — splendidly  featured.  What  hap- 
pened? He  was  relegated  to  the  comer  of  a 
side  room.  Next  in  honour  are  the  works  of 
Jonas,  the  Frenchman,  and  Spencer  Pryse  and 
Eric  Kennington,  Englishmen.  These  men  should 
have  been  the  centre  of  the  exhibition.  As  it 
was,  they  merely  occurred  as  episodes  in  the  huge 
whole.'  " 
(While  I  was  talking,  Mr.  X  was  busy  with  his 


28o  Art  and  I 

notebook   and   gold   pencil.      He   is   a   wonderful 
pupil.     I  do  hope  that  I  am  usually  right.) 
"Of  course,"  I  hastened  to  add,  "presentation  is  use- 
less, indeed  is  harmful,  unless  the  works  presented 
are  worthy." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  X.     "It  would  be  wicked 
to  put  a  leaking  bath  in  a  bank  president's  house." 
"Nobody,"   I   continued,   "can   deny  that  the   pic- 
tures donated  to  the  Red  Cross  that  adorned  Fifth 
Avenue    were    admirably   presented.      They    hung 

alone.    Each  had  a  magnificent  position — but " 

"You  can  trust  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X.  "I  am  all 
discretion." 

"Well,  the  artists  who  contributed  them  meant  well. 
They  snatched  moments  from  a  busy  life  to  paint 
them.  But  such  pictures  won't  do.  These  slap- 
dash things  served  no  purpose  except  to  show  that 
art  is  cloistered  and  somewhat  sacred  and  cannot 
be  forced  into  the  highways  to  serve  the  busy  claims 
of  the  moment." 

"You  are  severe,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X,  "but  I  take  you. 
Fine  art  and  also  applied  art  should  be  exclusive. 
I  am  with  the  Greek  who  said — 'Nothing  too  much.' 
Last  week  my  publicity  man  came  to  me  with  a 
number  of  apo — apo — apophthegms  suitable  for  in- 
scribing in  my  best  bathrooms.  He  wanted  them 
to  run  all  round  the  tiles.  I  said — 'No;  one  will 
do — nothing  too  much.*  And  which  one  do  you 
suppose  I  chose?" 

It  seems  vain  in  retrospection,  but  I  could  not  re- 
sist the  answer — "  'Cleanliness  is  next  to '  " 

"Just  so,"  said  Mr.  X,  flattered  yet  dismayed,  "but 


Art  and  Mr.  X  281 

I  shall  not  inscribe  it  round  the  tiles.  That  would 
be  too  didactic.  No,  sir,  that  famous  sentence  shall 
go  round  the  hem  of  the  bath,  almost  out  of  sight. 
Presentation,  eh?" 


4.     MR.  X  AND  VELASQUEZ 

USUALLY  I  avoid  payment  days  at  the  Metro- 
politan Museum,  New  York,  for  the  economic 
reason  that  a  quarter  is  a  quarter  of  a  dollar.  But 
that  Friday  (Friday  is  a  payment  day)  I  had  an 
impulse  to  visit  the  museum,  and  my  impulse  was 
stronger  than  a  quarter.  It  arose  from  seeing 
Maeterlinck's  "Betrothal,"  incidentally  from  his 
moving  idea  of  making  the  portentous,  forcible- 
feeble  figure  of  Destiny  shrink,  as  the  play  pro- 
ceeds, into  its  natural  nothingness.  And  I  wanted 
to  contrast  Maeterlinck's  idea  of  Destiny  with  the 
idea  of  Fate  by  an  American  sculptor,  Alexander 
P.  Proctor,  shown  in  his  remarkable  and  not  readily 
forgotten  figure  of  a  prowling,  ponderous  and 
ominous  beast  of  prey.  So,  with  my  quarter  ready, 
I  proceeded  to  Eighty-second  Street. 
On  the  steps  of  the  museum  I  encountered  Mr.  X. 
He  had  paused  to  inhale  the  invigourating  air  for 
which  New  York  is  famous,  and  he  had  removed 
his  silk  hat,  inviting  the  zephyrs  to  play  about  his 
well-shaped  brow.  It  is  the  brow  of  a  weighty, 
prosperous  man,  who  is  using  his  prosperity  wisely 
and  with  an  air.  There  is  nothing  of  the  Bolshevist 
about  Mr.  X.  Indeed,  I  could  not  help  admiring 
his  goodly  figure,  his  astrachan  coat,  his  severe 
trousers,  his  grey-black  gloves,  his  spotless  collar, 
282 


Art  and  Mr.  X  283 

and  the  peep  of  white  cuffs.  I  felt  proud  to  be 
honoured  among  his  acquaintances. 
We  exchanged  salutations  and  I  proceeded  to  make 
a  jocular  remark  (a  blemish  on  my  character  which 
I  have  not  yet  quite  been  able  to  eradicate).  "It's 
a  paying  day,  Mr.  X,"  I  said. 
"I  am  aware  of  it,  sir,"  he  answered,  "and  I  beg 
to  inform  you  that  when  I  visit  this  excellent  in- 
stitution I  invariably  select  those  days  when  a 
modest  charge  is  made.  The  institution  has  to  be 
supported  financially,  and  I  consider  it  the  duty 
of  a  successful  business  man  to  choose  those  days 
when  a  charge  is  made — and"  (a  faint  smile  flick- 
ered for  an  instant  over  his  well-modelled  lips)  "and 
when  the — er — proletariat  is  a  little  less  in  evi- 
dence. Moreover,  when  I  visit  this  institution,  I 
pay  some  regard  (if  you  will  permit  a  personal 
reference)  to  my  costume.  An  ill-dressed  man,  an 
untidy  man,  or  one  who  has  neglected  to  shave 
himself  is  not  fit  company  for  important  works  of 
art.     Do  you  take  me,  sir?" 

"Entirely!  I  offer  you  my  felicitations,  Mr.  X. 
Philip  IV  of  Spain  would  have  approved  of  your 
costume." 

A  shade  of  suspicion  fluttered  in  Mr.  X's  eyes, 
but  as  my  face  was  solemn  he  contented  himself 
with  saying,  "Why  Philip  IV?" 
"Because  when  Philip  IV  ascended  the  throne  of 
Spain  in  1621,  he  instituted  a  plain  and  sombre 
method  of  dress — black,  all  black  with  a  wide  linen 
collar   and  cuffs,   sometimes  relieved  by  a  golden 


284  ^rt  and  I 

chain  from  which  hangs  the  Order  of  the  Golden 
Fleece." 

Mr.  X  purred  and  fingered  his  massive  watch 
chain. 

"Philip's  fancy  for  sombre  clothes  may  incidentally 
have  assisted  the  expression  of  the  genius  of 
Velasquez  who,  as  you  know,  was  Philip's  favourite 
painter  and  friend.  He  gave  him  a  studio  in  the 
palace  at  Madrid  and  Velasquez  devoted  most  of 
his  life  to  painting  the  portraits  of  Philip  and  his 
family.  They  live  not  through  their  deeds.  They 
live  through  the  art  of  Velasquez.  That  is  im- 
mortality on  earth.  But  all  this  is  an  old  story 
to  you,  Mr.  X." 

The  good  man  bowed.  "No,  sir,  I  am  always 
glad  to  learn.  Years  of  absorption  in  the  task  of 
manufacturing  the  Perfect  Bath  have  not  allowed 
me  to  devote  as  much  time  as  I  could  have  wished 
to  the  art  and  life  of  Velasquez.  You  were  saj'- 
ing,  sir,  something  about  the  dark  costumes  im- 
posed on  the  Spanish  court  by  Philip  IV  helping 
the  art  of  Velasquez." 

"Yes,  it  forced  Velasquez  to  investigate  the  fasci- 
nating problem  of  blacks,  that  is,  the  gradations  of 
black — blue-black,  purple-black,  grey-black — all  the 
variations  of  the  family  of  blacks  seen  under  the 
changes  of  light.  Velasquez  saw  colour.  He  could 
paint  colour.  Those  who  say  that  Velasquez  was 
not  a  colourist  have  only  to  be  reminded  of  'The 
Surrender  of  Breda,'  a  dream  of  colour  and  the 
greatest  historical  picture  in  the  world ;  of  the  por- 
trait of  the  monarch  known  as  the  'Fraga  Philip,' 


J 


Art  and  Mr.  X  285 

now  in  the  Frick  collection,  an  orderly  riot  of 
colour;  of  the  shimmering  rose-pink  in  the  dress  of 
the  'Infanta  in  Red' ;  but  it  is  the  blacks  of  Velasquez 
that  fascinate  me — the  diaphanous  drapery  beneath 
the  body  of  the  'Rokeby  Venus';  the  blacks  and 
greys,  wonders  of  tone  and  values,  in  'The  Maids 
of  Honour,'  and  the  noble  blacks  in  the  portrait 
here,  in  this  museum,  of  'Philip  Young.'  " 
Mr.  X  tucked  his  umbrella  (it  was  the  right  kind, 
with  a  collapsible  crook  so  that  it  can  be  packed  in 
a  trunk)  under  his  arm,  and  advanced  his  right 
patent  shoe  a  few  inches.  I  have  noticed  that 
when,  in  talking,  I  get  the  bit  between  my  teeth, 
he  waits  until  I  mention  something  concrete,  some- 
thing he  understands,  and  then  he  pulls  me  up  sharp 
with  a  jerk. 

"Here,  in  this  museum,"  cried  Mr.  X.  "Pray 
let  us  examine  it."  He  paused  a  moment  to  repri- 
mand three  children  who  were  using  the  swing-door 
as  a  plaything,  and  then  linking  his  arm  in  mine 
(I  hope  the  janitors  noticed  us)  he  paid  the  two 
quarters,  affably  waving  aside  my  remonstrance, 
and  then  allowed  me  to  lead  him  to  Gallery  37. 
There,  in  the  place  of  honour,  hangs  Philip  IV  by 
Velasquez,  painted  when  Velasquez  was  25  and 
Philip  19.  This  early  work  is  singularly  attractive. 
It  is  the  straight  painting  of  a  young  master.  The 
trained  hand  of  the  artist  has  followed  the  unerring 
eye.  It  is  attractive  because  it  is  so  sure,  so  frank 
an  example  of  the  painter's  power  of  draftsman- 
ship, and  of  placing  a  figure  on  the  canvas,  boldly 
yet  modestly. 


286  Art  and  I 

Velasquez  never  showed  off,  never  flirted  with  clev- 
erness, never  allowed  his  technique  to  outdistance 
his  theme.  He  painted  as  he  lived;  his  art  is  a 
reflection  of  the  life  of  a  Spanish  gentleman,  plain 
and  courteous,  of  noble  birth  and  modest  manners, 
who  received  a  small  salary  as  Philip's  Palace  Mar- 
shal, including  yearly  a  new  suit  of  clothes;  and 
who  filled  in  his  time  painting  masterpieces.  Here 
is  Philip  Young,  before  Olivares,  his  Prime  Min- 
ister, had  brought  Spain  to  disaster;  before  he  had 
sucked  the  orange  of  life  dry  finding  it  bitterer 
and  bitterer;  Philip  fair  and  surly,  tall  and  alert, 
with  the  Hapsburg  mouth  and  the  Hapsburg  nose; 
Philip  IV  of  Spain,  unhappy,  unfortunate,  un- 
regretted,  who  is  said  never  to  have  been  angry  and 
to  have  laughed  only  three  times  in  his  life. 
When  I  look  at  a  portrait  like  this,  the  present 
fades  away  into  stillness  and  the  past  becomes  elo- 
quent. So  real  did  Philip  Young  seem  to  me,  so 
vivid  the  scene  when  he  would  steal  away  from 
the  claims  of  state  and  proceed  by  a  secret  stair- 
case to  the  studio  of  Velasquez  and  there  sit  talking, 
that  I  forgot  all  about  Mr.  X. 

I  turned  to  find  that  the  worthy  man  had  seated 
himself  on  a  cane  chair  and  was  gazing  intently 
at  Philip  Young. 

"A  remarkable  portrait,  sir,"  he  said,  "And  no 
doubt  an  excellent  likeness.  As  a  good  democrat, 
kings  have  little  interest  for  me,  but,  if  I  may 
say  so,  this  seems  to  me  to  be  an  admirable  por- 
trait of  a  man,  a  weak  man,  but  a  kingly  man,  if 
I  may  use  the  expression;  certainly  he  had  good 


Art  and  Mr.  X  287 

taste.  I  approve  of  dark  clothes,  especially  on  im- 
portant occasions,  and  those  worn  by  King  Philip 
seem  to  be  exceptionally  well  made.  .  .  .  It  is  a 
remarkable  portrait;  it  seems  to  me  to  have  quali- 
ties of  gravity  and  sincerity  that  are  all  too  rare 
in  art." 

Mr.  X's  eyes  wandered.  I  followed  their  direc- 
tion. They  had  roamed  to  the  portraits  by  Van 
Dyck  that  hang  on  either  side  of  the  Velasquez. 
Then  he  said  something  which  explains  why  I  so 
constantly  seek  Mr.  X's  society.  Yes,  X  betrays, 
periodically,  remarkable  artistic  acumen.  He  said, 
*'The  Van  Dycks  look  superficial  beside  the 
Velasquez." 

"Oh,  rare  Mr.  X !"  I  cried. 

"I  can  understand,"  he  continued,  hastily,  "why  Sir 
Walter  Armstrong"  (he  referred  to  his  notebook) 
"should  have  called  Velasquez  the  greatest  painter 
the  world  has  produced.  Oh,  yes,  I  make  a  note 
of  brief,  definite  statements  like  that  by  authori- 
ties. You  were  saying,  sir,  that  Velasquez  painted 
his  royal  master  many  times." 
"Endlessly.  There  is  a  Thilip  Young*  at  Boston, 
others  in  the  Prado  at  Madrid,  many  of  Thilip 
Middle  Aged';  and  in  the  National  Gallery,  Lon- 
don, a  half  length  of  Thilip  Old',  superb,  a  master- 
piece, the  joy  of  artists,  the  despair  of  copyists. 
This  Philip  here  is  the  result  of  the  unerring  eye, 
and  the  faultlessly  obedient  hand  of  Velasquez 
working  in  combination ;  you  can  follow  the 
processes  of  his  draftsmanship  and  painting;  but  in 
the  Thilip  Old'  at  the  National  Gallery,  all  you 


288  Art  and  I 

can  say  is,  that  it  seems  to  have  been  willed — and 
it  was  done.  And  if  we  say  this  of  the  simple 
figure  of  'Philip  Old'  what  shall  we  say  of  the 
group  of  figures,  'The  Maids  of  Honour,'  at  Ma- 
drid, called  by  Spaniards  'The  Family  Picture'? 
The  parents  of  little  Princess  Margaret  wanted 
another  portrait  of  her,  so  she  was  conducted  to 
the  painting  room  of  Velasquez  in  the  old  palace  at 
Madrid.  But  the  child  was  tired  of  having  her 
portrait  painted;  she  protested,  she  rebelled,  so 
her  little  maids  of  honour  were  called,  and  they 
brought  with  them  her  favorite  dwarf  to  amuse 
her,  and  her  big  dog,  and  the  King  and  Queen  were 
there  looking  on  and  saying,  'Now  be  good,  there's 
a  dear;  and  the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  had 
drawn  back  the  curtain,  at  the  back  of  the  vast 
chamber,  letting  in  a  flood  of  sunlight,  and  there 
was  Velasquez  standing  before  the  canvas  as  big 
as  the  wall  of  a  cottage,  and  his  quiet  deep  eyes 
took  in  all  the  scene,  including  his  own  figure, 
which  he  could  see  in  a  mirror — the  protests,  the 
entreaties,  the  cajoleries  and  the  way  the  light  lost 
itself  and  found  itself  again  in  the  dim  heights, 
amid  the  rafters  of  the  painting  room.  Velasquez 
looked.  He  saw  that  it  was  good.  He  began  to 
paint.  Some  time  later,  long  after,  when  the  pic- 
ture was  quite  finished,  Philip  IV  said  to  Velasquez, 
'There  is  one  thing  wanting,*  whereupon  he  took 
a  brush,  dipped  it  in  red  pigment,  and  painted  on 
the  breast  of  the  figure  of  Velasquez  in  the  picture 
— the  cross  of  Santiago." 
"A  fitting  honour,"  said   Mr.   X.     "That  is  the 


Art  and  Mr.  X  289 

right  way  to  bestow  knighthoods.  I  have  often 
thought  that  were  I  an  Englishman,  I  would  re- 
fuse a  knighthood  like  Mr.  John  Galsworthy  and 
others.  And  yet,  and  yet"  (Mr.  X  smiled),  "sup- 
pose King  George  were  to  meet  me  in  the  cor- 
ridor of  Buckingham  Palace,  after  he  had  been  en- 
joying a  bath  in  my  Super  A  tub,  and  out  of  sheer 
gratitude  were  to — tush!  tush!  sir.  Pardon  me. 
Such  levity  is  unbecoming,  indecorous,  surrounded 
as  we  are  by  noble  works  of  art.  But  that  must 
have  been  a  proud  moment  for  Velasquez!" 
As  we  walked  away  I  said — "How  about  your  col- 
lection of  British  and  American  advanced  pictures, 
Mr.  X?  Is  it  progressing?" 
"Sir,"  he  answered,  "it  is  in  abeyance.  When  I  see 
an  Old  Master  I  feel  less  confident  about  my  judg- 
ment of  the — er — young  Modern  Masters." 


5.     MR.  X  AND  SUN  PAINTING 

THERE  came  my  way  a  copy  of  "Natural  His- 
tory," the  journal  of  the  American  Museum 
of  Natural  History.  Within  was  an  article  by 
Howard  Russell  Butler  called  "Painting  the  Solar 
Corona,"  handsomely  illustrated  in  colour,  with  the 
information  that  this  picture  of  the  total  eclipse  of 
the  sun,  painted  at  Baker,  Oregon,  on  June  8,  1918, 
is  now  enshrined,  in  an  appropriate  setting,  in  the 
Natural  History  Museum  of  New  York. 
Sensible  sun  painting!  For  his  portraits  Mr.  But- 
ler requires  from  10  to  12  sittings  of  two  hours 
each.  The  sun  would  only  allow  him  112  seconds, 
the  period  of  totality  of  the  eclipse.  But  much 
could  be  done  beforehand,  much  afterward,  and 
those  precious  112  seconds  were  spent  not  in  paint- 
ing, but  in  recording  and  checking.  Manet  and 
Corot  in  painting  man  or  nature  worked  in  values; 
that  is,  in  the  relation  of  the  deepest  dark  to  the 
highest  light,  and  Mr.  Butler,  in  painting  the  Solar 
Corona,  prepared  to  work  in  the  same  way.  Ob- 
viously, the  deepest  dark  is  the  moon  hiding  the 
sun,  and  the  brightest  lights  are  the  flames  that 
shoot  out  from  the  rim  of  the  darkened  solar  fur- 
nace, darting  up,  some  of  them,  to  a  distance  of 
480,000  miles  at  the  rate  of  100  miles  a  second. 
290 


Art  and  Mr.  X  291 

These  prominences,  these  leaping  tongues  of  fire, 
had  to  be  portrayed  in  their  proper  colour  and  bril- 
liancy. Working  in  values,  Mr.  Butler  decided, 
after  many  experiments,  on  a  sky  value  of  25,  and 
a  prominence  value  of  60,  the  total  variation  in 
values  thus  being  limited  to  35  points.  Many  mod- 
ern painters,  except,  of  course,  Futurists  and  Bol- 
sheviki,  employ,  directly  or  indirectly,  a  system  of 
notation  for  their  values.  The  layman  can  prac- 
tise it  sitting  on  a  hilltop,  or  in  a  room.  Make 
10  your  highest  light  and  1  your  deepest  dark; 
then,  half  closing  the  eyes,  arrange  in  your  mind 
the  intermediary  numbers.  This  is  an  inexpensive 
family  game,  and  of  course  it  does  not  matter  much 
if  the  gradation  of  your  values  is  not  absolutely 
right.  But  in  painting  the  Solar  Corona  Mr.  But- 
ler had  to  make  his  values  as  right  as  is  humanly 
possible. 

In  appearance  this  picture  of  the  Solar  Corona  is 
not  unlike  the  iridescent  jellyfish  that  annoy  bath- 
ers on  the  Dutch  coast.  Fleecy  clouds  sweep  over 
an  indigo  sky,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  picture, 
surrounded  by  the  pale  blue  oval  of  the  corona, 
is  the  dark  circle  of  the  moon  blotting  out  the 
solar  furnace.  Round  the  rim  are  the  prominences, 
the  riot  of  flame  anything  up  to  480,000  miles  high. 
In  the  picture  the  biggest  prominence  is  about  half 
the  height  of  a  bird  seed. 

I  looked  with  veneration  at  this  example  of  sun 
painting,  knowing  the  intelligence,  labour,  and  time" 
that  had  gone  into  its  production.  Having  saluted 
it,  I  returned  to  the  Central  Hall  of  the  Natural 


292  Art  and  I 

History  Museum,  purposing  to  examine  with  more 
care  the  prize  sweet  peas,  and  the  marvellous 
meteorites. 

Immediately  I  entered  the  hall  my  attention  was 
challenged  by  a  figure  standing  in  front  of  the 
seated  marble  statue  of  Morris  Ketchum  Jesup, 
president  of  the  Natural  History  Museum  from 
1881  to  1908.  The  person  who  was  so  intently 
examining  this  specimen  of  Victorian  statuary  was 
Mr.  X.  I  regret  to  say  that  he  was  admiring  it. 
Do  you  know  this  statue  that  stands  in  the  middle 
of  the  Central  Hall?  There  is  nothing  to  be  said 
against  it,  except  that  it  is  not  art :  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said  in  its  favour  except  that  it  is  a  copy 
in  marble  of  how  Mr.  Jesup  looked  when  he  was 
seated  in  a  costly  chair,  dressed  rather  carefully, 
including  a  handsome  pin  in  his  necktie.  I  believe 
that  the  sculptor,  whose  name  is  not  given,  really 
tried  in  a  passing  glimpse  to  be  artistic.  Has  he 
not  arranged  the  tassels  of  the  chair  in  a  neglige 
manner:  has  he  not  caught  up  two  or  three  of 
them  in  disorderly  array? 

Let  that  pass.  What  concerned  me  was  the  dis- 
covery that  Mr.  X  was  thoroughly  enjoying  this 
crude  example  of  illustrative  sculpture.  He  nodded 
his  head  gravely;  he  smiled  approval;  and  I  am 
sure  that  he  was  seeing  himself  at  some  far-distant 
date  in  a  similar  position.  He  glanced  down  at 
his  figure;  he  took  a  deep  breath;  he  saw  himself, 
rotund,  and  handsomely  clothed,  in  marble.  Alas, 
all  my  admonitions  had  failed.  Was  this  the  result 
of  my  art  ministrations? 


Art  and  Mr.  X  293 

I  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  started  guiltily, 
linked  his  arm  in  mine,  and  said  (he  is  really  a 
man  of  considerable  self-possession),  "Were  it  not 
for  the  children,  who  seem  to  become  noisier  every 
year,  the  Natural  History  Museum  would  be  a  very 
agreeable  place  to  spend  a  Sunday  afternoon." 
As  we  walked  toward  Central  Park,  I  said,  "I  went 
there  to  see  Butler's  'Total  Eclipse'  picture." 
"So  did  I,"  said  Mr.  X.  "Great  minds  jump 
together."  He  said  this  with  a  smile  as  if  he 
had  uttered  something  witty. 

Continuing  to  smile,  he  compelled  rather  than 
led  me  to  a  tree,  withdrew  the  magazine  he  was 
carrying  from  under  his  arm,  dropped  it  upon  the 
sward,  and  sat  upon  it.  Then  he  proceeded  to 
unload  upon  me  a  prodigious  amount  of  lore  about 
eclipses — how  Oppolyer's  "Canon  der  Finsternisse" 
gives  the  elements  of  no  fewer  than  13,000  eclipses, 
both  of  sun  and  moon,  which  have  taken  place 
since  1207  B.  C,  and  which  will  be  seen  before 
2152  A.  D.,  and  so  on. 

At  last  I  broke  in  and  said — "You've  been  reading 
the  article  in  'Natural  History.'  " 
Have  I  told  you  that  Mr.  X  is  sly?    He  withdrew 
the  magazine  from  under  his  body,  and  tucked  it 
under  his  arm   again,   acting  as  if   I   had  not  ob- 
served what  he  was  doing.     Then  he  turned  the 
conversation.     "In  what  category,  sir,  would  you 
place  Mr.   Butler's  picture?" 
"Sensible  sun  painting,"  I  answered. 
Out  came  his  pencil  and  notebook.     He  wrote  the 
words  down.     Mr.  X  is  rather  a  dear. 


6.     MR.  X  AND  A  CRITIC 

OCCASIONALLY  Mr.  X  is  peremptorial. 
Then  I  obey.  He  was  peremptorial  the  other 
morning  over  the  telephone.  "I  have  a  Critic  here," 
he  said.  "Come  and  hear  him  discourse,  4.30 
sharp.  Mrs.  X  is  away  for  the  day." 
When  I  arrived  at  his  new  studio-apartment,  which 
has  already  been  described,  I  found  the  good  man 
"picnicking,"  as  he  expressed  it.  The  painters  had 
finished.  The  panelled  walls  are  a  beautiful  purply 
grey  discreetly  relieved  with  gold  lines,  an  excel- 
lent background  for  most  pictures.  The  walls  are 
a  rare  colour  and  I  may  hint,  in  passing,  that  for  a 
week  a  friend  of  Mr.  X  stood  by  the  bewildered, 
sulking  painters  and  forced  them  to  produce  the 
right  tint  of  purply  grey. 

Propped  against  this  delectable  wall  was  a  repro- 
duction in  colour  of  the  first  pure  landscape  pro- 
duced in  the  western  painting  world — "S.  Francis 
Preaching  to  the  Birds,"  by  Giotto,  a  lovely,  archaic, 
time-stained  thing  inadequately  described  by  Mr. 
X  as  "not  chic,  sir,  but  it  takes  some  beating." 
Indeed,  against  the  purply-grey  wall  this  silvery- 
purple  landscape  looked  adorable.  I  should  have 
enjoyed  the  harmony  more  had  it  not  been  for  a 
strong  odour  of  beeswax  and  turpentine,  and  I  was 
294 


i 


Art  and  Mr.  X  295 

also  discommoded  by  the  trouble  of  crossing  the  floor 
on  the  boards  and  pieces  of  wood  that  had  been 
laid  upon  it.  Mr.  X,  you  see,  had  been  advised 
to  have  a  black  floor.  The  painting  was  dry,  but 
two  men  had  been  employed  all  the  morning  in 
waxing  the  surface. 

Hence  my  discomfort.  The  Critic,  when  he 
arrived,  was  evidently  also  disturbed.  His  face 
puckered  up,  his  nostrils  quivered  and  he  seemed 
quite  disinclined  to  cross  the  rickety  board  to  a 
chair  that  had  been  placed  for  him  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  room.  Here  Mr.  X  shone.  He  is  al- 
ways fine  in  an  emergency.  It  was  heartening  to 
watch  him  conduct  the  Critic  to  his  chair  with 
an  air  that  an  Eighteenth  Century  macaroon  might 
have  envied.  Having  assembled  us  in  our  seats, 
Mr.  X  cleared  his  throat  and  said,  "Gentlemen, 
I  have  asked  you  to  honour  me  with  your  presence 
here,  because  I  have  just  made  a  purchase  and  I 
wish  to  have  your  opinions  upon  it." 
Whereupon  he  opened  a  fat  brown-paper  parcel 
and  displayed  a  selection  of  the  Medici  prints.  On 
the  top  was  Botticelli's  exquisite  fresco  of  "Gio- 
vanna  Tornabuoni  and  the  Graces,"  now  in  the 
Louvre.  A  vast  smile  of  self-approbation  over- 
spread Mr.  X's  serene  countenance.  "I  bought 
them  on  my  own  responsibility,"  he  said,  looking 
at  me  with  quizzical  interrogativeness.  "I  argued 
thus — as  these  prints  are,  so  I  am  informed,  faith- 
ful facsimiles  of  the  originals,  a  careful  study  of 
them  should  acquaint  me  with  many  masterpieces 
of  paintings.     Pray,  sir,  give  me  your  opinion  on 


296  Art  and  I 

my  choice."     With   that   he  dumped   the  bundle 
on  the  Critic's  knee. 

The  Critic  winced.  "Oh,  art  in  bulk  bores  me," 
he  moaned.  "And  as  for  reproductions,  either  of 
pictures  or  marbles,  I  don't  give  a  fig  for  them." 
He  looked  wearily  through  the  bundle,  and  I, 
knowing  him,  waited,  hoping  that  something  would 
kindle  his  imagination  and  provoke  him  to  talk. 
But  the  subject  of  his  talk,  which  is  often  good, 
must  come  from  himself.  I  doubted  if  the  present 
occasion  was  propitious.  Well  meaning,  but  blun- 
dering, Mr.  X  had  borne  down  the  Critic,  physi- 
cally as  well  as  mentally,  when  he  dumped  that 
heavy  brown-paper  parcel  upon  his  knee. 
Suddenly  the  Critic  started,  awoke  from  his  leth- 
argy. Holding  out  a  facsimile  of  "Jean  Arnolfini 
and  His  Wife,"  by  Jan  van  Eyck,  from  the  pic- 
ture in  the  National  Gallery,  London,  he  said, 
"Painting  is  an  amazing  thing!  We  talk  about 
progress,  but  here  is  a  picture  done  in  the  early 
Fifteenth  Century  that  is  perfection.  In  the  genre 
of  intimate,  domestic  pictures,  this  work  has  never 
been  excelled,  and  yet  Jan  van  Eyck  was  in  at  the 
beginning.  He  and  his  brother  Hubert  were  vir- 
tually the  inventors  of  oil  painting.  And  in  one 
burst  he  produces  this  unparalleled  masterpiece. 
Marvellous!" 

Mr.  X  scrutinised  "Jean  Arnolfini  and  His  Wife." 
Then  he  proceeded  to  shuffle  the  other  examples 
of  great  and  greater,   less  and  lesser  masters. 
"Stop!"  cried   the  Critic.      (He   is  an  aggressive 


Art  and  Mr.  X  297 

man  and  does  not  seem  to  realise  Mr.  X's  impor- 
tance.) "Stop!  I  want  to  look  at  nothing  else. 
Why  distract  my  mind  with  other  things?  My 
appreciation  is  satiated.  At  this  moment,  Jan 
van  Eyck  is  supreme  alone.  Nothing  else  can  ap- 
proach his  throne.  For  the  moment  I  want  to 
keep  him  there."  He  placed  the  facsimile  upon 
the  ledge  of  the  wall  and  gazed  at  it  rapturously, 
yet  knotting  his  brows. 

"I  salute  you,  Master,"  he  cried.  "You,  who 
reached  perfection  in  a  single  stride,  and  your  elder 
brother,  Hubert,  who  was  doubtless  the  author  of 
the  best  miniatures  in  the  'Heures  de  Turin,'  may 
even  have  been  a  greater  man  than  you  or  than 
Pol  de  Limbourg.  Incomparable  brothers,  I  salute 
you!" 

"Pray,  sir,"  interposed  Mr.  X,  "what  is  your  opin- 
ion of  Guido  Reni?" 

I  suppose  that  at  that  moment  Mr.  X  was  nearer 
to  being  struck,  assaulted  by  the  fists,  than  at  any 
time  of  his  mature  life. 

But  the  Critic  kept  his  temper  admirably,  and  subtly 
punished  Mr.  X  by  addressing  his  remarks  directly 
to  me.  "I  am  always  provoked,"  he  said,  "when 
an  editor,  or  a  collector,  or  the  world  tries  to 
hustle  me  into  an  attempt  to  make  me  admire  things 
in  the  bulk.  I  am  a  subjective  critic — indeed,  I  am 
not  a  critic  at  all.  I  am  an  appreciator,  and  1 
assume  it  to  be  the  duty  of  a  critic  to  do  as  M, 
Anatole  France  does,  to  narrate  the  adventures  of 
my  soul  among  masterpieces.  I  have  no  use  for 
objective    criticism.      It    does    not    interest   me    to 


298  Art  and  I 

compare  one  work  with  another,  or  to  give  a  few 
kindly  lines  to  every  picture  in  an  exhibition.  That 
is  what  editors  usually  want,  but  it  is  a  sure  way 
to  produce  a  tedious  and  unreadable  article.  My 
way  is  to  seek  one  thing,  some  work  that  arouses 
my  interest,  and  to  base  my  article  on  that  alone. 
I  am  constitutionally  unable  to  give  my  attention 
to  the  other  facsimiles  in  our  friend's  bundle.  The 
van  Eyck  fills  my  heart  and  mind,  its  subtle  drafts- 
manship, the  delicate  but  profound  way  the  paint 

is  handled,  the " 

"Pardon  me,"  interposed  Mr.  X.  "If  you  will 
permit  me  I  will  walk  up  and  down  this  board 
for  a  while.  Pray  continue  your  remarks,  sir." 
The  Critic  proceeded  to  address  his  remarks  even 
more  immediately  to  me:  "I'll  give  you  an  in- 
stance of  what  I  mean.  Yesterday  I  visited  a  'Loan 
Exhibition  of  French  Art,  Periods  of  Louis  XV 
and  Louis  XVI.'  The  room  or  hall  is  smallish,  and 
into  it  have  been  crowded  262  items,  ranging  from 
a  commode  of  Louis  XV  to  a  miniature  portrait  of 
St.  Just;  from  a  wall  of  Beauvais  tapestry  to  the 
baby  shoes  that  belonged  to  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 
As  I  have  told  you,  art  in  the  bulk  appals  me. 
Individually,  many  of  these  things  were  interest- 
ing, but  to  examine  them  one  after  the  other,  be- 
cause my  editor  insists  upon  a  general  view  of  every 
exhibition  I  attend,  only  makes  me  contemptuous 
and  certainly  produces  a  bad  article.  On  I  plugged 
— portrait  of  the  Marquise  de  La  Fayette,  three 
vinaigrettes,  pair  of  candelabra,  and  so  on,  and  so 
on.     Then  suddenly,  on  the  last  wall,  I  saw  the 


Art  and  Mr.  X  299 

thing  that  was  specially  for  me.  My  spirits 
bounded.  My  power  of  appreciation  gushed  up- 
ward like  a  fountain.  It  was  a  small  picture  by 
Fragonard,  'Le  Premier  Baiser,'  just  a  pretty  sub- 
ject, but  oh,  the  treatment  of  it,  liquid  gold,  the 
exquisite  draftsmanship,  bathed  in  an  auriferous 
little  lake  of  golden  light — a  Fragonard,  a  perfect 
work  by  a  perfect  little  master  who  had  no  other 
desire  than  to  please.  Am  I  clear?  Do  you  follow 
my  thought?  In  an  ideal  state  my  editor  and  my 
public  would  demand  of  me,  as  critic,  an  apprecia- 
tion of  only  what  has  pleased  rne — the  van  Eyck 
in  Mr.  X's  bundle,  the  Fragonard  at  the  French 
Loan  Exhibition!" 

Slowly  Mr.  X  fastened  the  string  around  the 
bundle.  When  he  had  made  it  neat  he  turned 
pointedly  to  me  and  said:  "Perhaps,  sir,  on  some 
future  occasion  you  will  give  me  your  opinion  on 
the  other  pictures  in  this  assortment." 
Really,  for  so  magisterial  a  man  it  was  quite  a 
pretty  rebuke. 

Mr.  X  has  skipped  away  to  Palm  Beach  wear- 
ing a  new  Panama  hat,  and  a  necktie  which 
I  begged  him  to  discard  before  he  returns  to  civil- 
isation. He  took  with  him  a  copy  of  Ruskin's 
"Sesame  and  Lilies"  and  Rex  Beach's  story,  "Too 
Fat  to  Fight"— "for  relaxation,  sir."  On  a  post 
card  just  received  from  him  he  says — "I  have  seen 
the  Royal  Poinciana  Tree  in  bloom.  It  gives  me 
a  better  understanding  of  Post-Impressionism  and, 


300  Art  and  I 

to  a  certain  degree,  reconciles  me  to  that  revolu- 
tionary movement.  I  have  not  yet  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  discuss  art  with  any  of  the  wealthy  men 
who  reside  here  in  cottages.     Cottages — ahem!" 


7.    A  LETTER  TO  MR.  X 

TO  Mr.  X,  Palm  Beach,  Florida. 
My  dear  Mr.  X: 
It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  receive  your  letter  fol- 
lowing your  picture  post  card,  and  to  note  at  the 
top,  in  correct  businesslike  fashion,  the  words,  one 
inclosure.  If  the  President  of  Mexico  had  con- 
ferred upon  me  the  rank  of  General  I  could  not 
have  been  more  surprised  than  when  I  realised 
that  your  "one  inclosure"  was  a  typewritten  poem 
by  yourself  in  vers  libre  under  the  caption,  "In 
Praise  of  Art  at  Palm  Beach."  We  need  not  de- 
spair of  America  if  her  successful  business  men  take 
to  writing  poetry,  even  if  the  form  be  that  of 
vers  libre. 

So  Palm  Beach  has  held  an  art  exhibition  in  a 
houseboat,  a  proceeding  which  has  moved  you  to 
write  a  poem,  in  your  bedroom,  in  the  "small  hours.' 
But  my  dear  Mr.  X,  you  must  not  use  the  ex- 
pression "feathered  warblers"  when  you  mean  birds, 
and  you  must  not  refer  to  "starry  orbs"  when  you 
are  describing  the  eyes  of  young  ladies.  I  admit 
that  the  moonlight  and  the  memory  of  Mrs.  X, 
who  is  unfortunately  detained  in  Philadelphia,  and 
the  "balmy  airs,"  to  quote  your  own  expression, 
tempt  the  poet  to  hyperbole.  But  the  great  artist 
301 


302  Art  and  I 

in  words  is  as  relentless  a  foe  to  the  cliche,  as  the 
great  manufacturer  is  to  adventitious  aids. 
You,  Mr.  X,  are  a  king  in  the  Bath  Tub  world: 
let  your  fine  discretion  and  austerity  accompany  you 
in  your  experiments  in  the  world  of  art.  Do  you 
not  remember  that  one  Easter  you  described  your- 
self as  a  Crusader  among  plumbers,  and  that  upon 
your  oriflamme  were  emblazoned  the  words,  "Util- 
ity, Simplicity  and  Beauty." 

All  the  same,  my  dear  Mr.  X,  I  am  much  inter- 
ested in  your  poetical  description  of  the  exhibition 
of  works  of  art  held  in  a  houseboat,  "on  Neptune's 
realm,"  as  you  express  it  in^your  ninth  line.  And 
I  am  also  much  interested  in  the  report  of  the  con- 
versation you  have  had  with  one  of  the  wealthy 
men  dwelling  in  a  cottage  "in  sylvan  solitude," 
as  to  the  prospects  of  art  in  the  United  States, 
and  the  necessity  of  bringing  art  in  fuller  measure 
before  the  people.  You  ask  me  to  give  you  some 
information  as  to  the  way  art  matters  are  con- 
ducted in  England,  so  that  the  wealthy  man  and 
yourself  may  have  some  ground  to  work  upon  in 
the  next  conversation  you  have  on  this  subject.  As 
you  justly  say — "Forewarned  is  forearmed." 
Well,  first  as  to  Patronage,  an  ugly  word  in  theory 
to  the  true  democrat,  but  in  practice  most  useful 
to  the  artist.  It  means  advertisement  of  art,  and 
advertisement,  as  j^ou  well  know,  is  another  way 
of  spelling  the  word  success.  The  spring  exhibi- 
tion of  the  Royal  Academy  in  London  is  adver- 
tised. Hence  crowds  and  sales  and  fame  for  a 
number  of  shy  painters  who  bear  their  fame  re- 


Art  and  Mr.  X  303 

markably  well.  The  spring  exhibition  of  the  Na- 
tional Academy  of  Design  in  New  York  is  not  ad- 
vertised. I  only  know  when  it  opens  through  see- 
ing a  review  of  the  pictures  in  small  print  in  the 
papers.  The  Royal  Academy,  on  a  spring  after- 
noon, is  so  crowded  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
see  the  pictures.  At  the  National  Academy  of  De- 
sign on  a  spring  afternoon  you  could  pace  the  rooms, 
my  dear  Mr.  X,  and  compose  a  poem  on  "The 
Loneliness  of  Art." 

Why  this  difference?  Because  the  people  of  Eng- 
land (who,  I  may  say,  in  parenthesis,  are  not  in  the 
least  artistic)  have  been  schooled,  for  years  and 
years,  into  the  belief  that  art  is  an  important  asset 
in  their  lives  and  also  that  the  opening  of  the 
Royal  Academy  Exhibition  is  a  great  social  event, 
quite  as  important  as  the  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Boat  Race  and  the  Ascot  Gold  Cup,  and  almost 
as  important  as  the  annual  Amateur  vs.  Profes- 
sional cricket  match  at  Lords.  The  opening  of  the 
Royal  Academy  Exhibition,  on  the  first  Monday 
in  May,  is  heralded  for  weeks  beforehand  by  news- 
paper paragraphs  describing  the  pictures  that  are 
being  painted.  The  Monday  before  the  exhibition 
opens  is  Varnishing  Day;  Tuesday  and  Wednes- 
day are  Press  Daj^s;  Thursday  is  Royal  Day;  Fri- 
day is  Private  View  Day,  when  lady  journalists  as- 
semble in  the  first  room  and  dispatch  special  mes- 
sages to  their  newspapers  with  accounts  of  the 
frocks.  On  Saturday  the  Banquet  is  held,  with 
speeches  by  notabilities,  the  reports  of  which  some- 
times fill   four   colmns  of    The    Times.     Royalty 


r*    Tm  kt^itit  >i    . 


304  Art  and  I 

graces  the  occasion.  Everybody  knows  that  the 
art  season  has  begun,  and  painters  who  desire  to 
become  a  member  of  the  Royal  Academy  buy  a  new 
silk  hat.  Can  you  wonder,  my  dear  Mr.  X,  when 
the  galleries  open  to  the  public  on  the  following 
Monday  that  they  are  crowded,  and  that  they  re- 
main crowded  until  the  end  of  August.  This,  sir, 
as  you  will  readily  perceive,  is  not  art:  it  is  a 
method  of  publicity  that  makes  art  seem  important. 
Which  it  is ! 

Another  British  way  of  arousing  interest  in  art  is 
the  attacks  that  for  half  a  century  have  been  made 
upon  the  Royal  Academy  for  its  conservatism,  for 
its  indifference  to  new  movements,  and  so  on.  The 
public  reads  these  attacks,  is  interested,  quite  im- 
partial, but  is  generally  aware  that  art  is,  as  you 
might  have  expressed  it  before  you  took  to  vers 
libre,  "alive  and  humming."  These  attacks  were 
usually  made  by  a  group  of  catholic  critics  and 
literary  painters  who,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  de- 
voted much  of  their  time  to  the  politics  of  art. 
Like  yourself,  they  were  Crusaders:  they  desired 
to  get  things  done ;  they  wanted  art  to  be  honoured 
and  efficient,  and  they  are  pegging  away  still — 
they  or  their  sons. 

It  was  this  group  that  forced  the  government  to 
send  to  the  seats  of  war  the  younger  painters,  the 
men  of  force  and  vision  such  as  John,  Orpen,  Nev- 
inson,  the  brothers  Nash  and  others.  There  has 
always  been  a  group  of  Britishers  who  have  fought 
in  the  columns  of  the  daily  and  weekly  press,  and 
in  books,  year  in  and  year  out,  for  art.     Hogarth 


Art  and  Mr.  X  305 

began  it.  Ruskin  devoted  his  life  to  the  enter- 
prise. Gradually  the  British  public  began  to  real- 
ise that  art  is  important,  and  gradually  wealthy 
men  (I  know  you  are  interested  in  wealthy  men, 
dear  Mr.  X)  began  to  offer  their  support.  That 
always  happens.  Drive  it  home  that  a  thing  is  im- 
portant, that  it  is  a  national  necessity,  and  the  Pa- 
tron appears.  He  appears  because  writers  have  forced 
into  his  consciousness  the  importance  of  Art. 
Let  me  give  you  a  few  instances.  In  the  early  nine- 
ties, the  shameful  condition  of  the  way  that  the 
nucleus  of  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  was  being 
treated  was  attacked.  Art  writers  protested.  They 
called  it  a  scandal:  they  urged  immediate  action. 
Result:  Mr.  Alexander  came  forward  and  built  the 
National  Portrait  Gallery  in  St.  Martin's  Place.  In 
1896  the  cry  for  a  National  Gallery  of  British 
Art  was  raised  in  the  press.  Result:  Sir  Henry 
Tate  built  the  Tate  Gallery.  In  1909  art  writers 
fulminated  against  the  neglect  of  the  Turner  be- 
quest of  water  colours,  unfinished  oils,  etc.  Result: 
Sir  Joseph  Duveen  built  the  Turner  wing  to  the 
Tate  Gallery. 

Later  the  group  began  to  agitate  for  a  Gallery 
of  Contemporary  Foreign  Art,  a  testimony  to  the 
union  of  the  Allies.  Result:  Sir  Joseph  Duveen  II 
offered  to  build  such  a  gallery  as  an  annex  to  the 
Tate  Gallery.  Plans  are  now  being  prepared,  and 
the  collection  will  include  American  pictures. 
There  are  other  things  I  might  tell  you,  my  dear 
Mr.  X,  of  the  ways  we  adopt  in  England  to  drive 
home  to  the  public  the  importance  of  art.     But  I 


3o6  Art  and  I 

have  said  enough  to  give  you  a  basis  for  your  ap- 
proaching conversation  with  your  friend,  the 
Vi^ealthy  man,  in  his  cottage  at  Palm  Beach. 
I  have  just  reread  your  poem,  and  I  am  tempted 
to  send  you  the  following,  which,  as  you  will  per- 
ceive, is  also  in  vers  libre,  or  "lazy  verse,"  as  some 
call  it.  I  would  point  out  to  you  that  the  avoidance 
of  rhyme,  rhythm,  and  scansion  makes  the  writing 
of  poetry  much  easier  than  heretofore. 


TO  ONE  AT  PALM  BEACH 

Return,  Mr.  X, 

Leave  the  Everglades 

And  the  Poinciana  Trees  in  bloom 

So  falsely  Post-Impressionistic. 

Return,  admirable  sir,  to  little  old 

New  York 

Where  men  are  poor  but  good, 

Where  we  bath  in  comfort, 

And  Art  is  honoured  in  steam-heated  rooms, 

Velvet-hung,   parquet-floored. 

Not  as  at  Palm  Beach 

In  houseboats 

Moist  and  drafty. 

Manhattan,  ay,  and  Brooklyn,  need  you,  Mr.  X, 

Return,  good  sir. 

For  without  you 

We  are 

Dull. 

As  this  is  the  first  poem  I  have  written  since  the 
war,  I  may  signalise  the  occasion  by  signing  myself 

A  Fellow  Poet. 


8.    MR.  X  AND  MURAL  PAINTING 

MY  dear  Mr.  X: 
I  am  much  interested  to  learn  that  you 
have  been  invited  by  the  Go-Ahead  Club  of  your 
home  town  to  give  an  informal  talk  on  Mural 
Painting  and  Street  Decoration. 
You  say,  dear  Mr.  X,  that  although  you  "know 
what  you  like"  in  regard  to  Mural  Painting  and 
Street  Decoration,  yet  your  knowledge  of  those  sub- 
jects may  be  described  as  rudimentary,  and  you  sug- 
gest that  I  should  furnish  you  with  a  few  hints. 
I  am  delighted  to  do  so.  Decoration,  interior  and 
exterior,  is  one  of  my  pet  subjects.  My  advice 
to  you,  valiant  sir,  is  to  be  bold,  to  be  yourself,  for 
there  never  was  a  time  when  the  important  sub- 
jects of  Mural  Painting  and  Street  Architecture 
needed  plainer  speaking.  To  reduce  the  matter  to 
its  simplest  axioms  I  suggest  that  Decoration, 
whether  in  the  city  hall  or  in  a  public  square  or 
street,  can  be  divided  into  two  classes — decorations 
that  charm,  and  decorations  that  instruct.  The  an- 
cient and  mediaeval  world,  which  understood  dec- 
oration, did  both.  The  modern  world,  which  does 
not  understand  decoration,  usually  does  neither. 
Let  me  take  a  concrete  example  of  modern 
decoration. 

One  of  the  adornments  erected  by  New  York  in 
307 


3o8  Art  and  I 

honour  of  her  returning  soldiers  was  the  Arch  of 
Jewels,  spanning  Fifth  Avenue  at  Fifty-ninth 
Street.  It  was  a  pretty  thing,  particularly  at  night, 
when  the  searchlights  played  upon  it.  At  Coney 
Island  or  at  Earl's  Court  this  Arch  of  Jewels  would 
be,  as  you  would  term  it,  an  "attractive  feature"; 
but  what  had  this  fairy-like  gewgaw  to  do  with 
the  resolute,  solemn  men  who  marched  under  it? 
The  stern  work  they  did  demanded  something 
sterner  and  finer  than  this  flashing  frivolity.  I 
examined  the  arch  carefully  by  daylight,  and  here, 
Mr.  X,  is  a  point  for  your  informal  talk.  On  the 
columns  of  the  arch  facing  downtown  were  sculp- 
tured decorations,  I  studied  them  carefully  and 
could  discover  in  their  design  neither  instruction 
nor  charm.  Dominating  each  of  the  groups  was 
a  huge  figure:  one  wore  a  gas  mask,  the  other  had 
a  sour,  symbolic  visage.  Beneath  these  two  gro- 
tesques were  puny  figures  in  allegorical  attitudes. 
Tell  this  to  your  audience  and  ask  them  what  pur- 
pose is  served  by  these  brainless  architectural  sculp- 
tures. They  gave  nothing  either  to  civilian  or  to 
soldier:  they  neither  charmed  nor  instructed:  they 
aroused  only  a  bored  wonder  as  to  their  mean- 
ing. 

When  I  walked  round  to  the  other  side  of  the 
arch,  facing  uptown,  I  had  a  most  agreeable  sur- 
prise. There  were  no  sculptures  on  this  side.  In 
their  place  was  dignified,  well-wrought,  and  well- 
spaced  lettering,  always  so  pleasant  to  the  eyes, 
and  rightly  done,  a  very  attractive  form  of  dec- 
oration.    And  the  text  of  the  lettering  was  so  well 


Art  and  Mr.  X  309 

chosen  that  I  gave  myself  the  pleasure  of  copying 
it  for  your  edification.     Here  it  is: 


God  give  us  strength  and  wisdom  to  do  it  wisely. 

God  give   us  the  privilege  of  knowing  that  we  did  it 

without  counting  the  cost. 
Every  foot  of  ground  that  they  won  was  permanently  won 

for  the  Liberty  of  Mankind. 
Not  to  glorify  America  but  to  serve  their  fellowmen. 

There,  my  dear  Mr.  X,  you  have  examples  of 
the  right  and  wrong  way  of  patriotic  decoration. 
One  is  futile,  the  other  is  fine;  one  is  stupid,  the 
other  is  stimulating.  Why  have  meaningless  fig- 
ures when  you  can  employ  sentences  of  fine  mean- 
ing in  fine  lettering? 

I  think  you  will  agree  with  me  that  improve* 
ment  is  not  possible  until  our  decorators  and  archi- 
tectural sculptors  make  up  their  minds  as  to  the 
purpose  of  their  art.  In  the  olden  days,  when  read- 
ing was  rare  and  knowledge  infrequent,  mural 
painting  had  the  definite  purpose  of  instruction. 
Those  days  are  past.  Nobody  dreams  today  of 
being  instructed  by  a  mural  painting.  We  look 
at  Mr.  Sargent's  frescoes  in  the  Boston  Library 
for  their  design,  drawing  and  colour,  never  for  their 
teaching.  I  have  spent  many,  many  hours  exam- 
ining modern  mural  paintings  in  Europe  and  Amer- 
ica, and  I  always  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
are  almost  always  on  the  wrong  lines.  Diaphanous 
figures  that  are  meant  to  mean  so  much  and  mean 
so  little.  Empty  designs  that  neither  instruct  nor 
charm.    How  often  have  I  felt  that  a  flat  surface 


310  Art  and  I 

of  fine  colour  would  be  much  more  agreeable,  or 
even  a  sweep  of  sky  and  green  headlands  emerging 
from  a  painted  sea.  Surely,  in  a  city,  nature  is 
the  proper  form  of  mural  painting.  Frankly  I 
prefer  wall  decorations  whose  aim  is  to  charm, 
and  nothing  else,  as  a  Persian  rug,  or  a  Japanese 
screen  charms.  Plead,  Mr.  X,  for  the  banishment 
of  the  figure,  and  the  re-entry  of  the  decorative 
design  that  does  not  attempt  to  express  anything 
but  pleasure  in  pattern  and  colour. 
We  western  moderns  are  the  slaves  of  repre- 
sentation in  art.  The  great  decorators  of  Assyria 
and  Egypt  knew  instinctively  that  representation  was 
not  the  right  way.  They  used  men  and  animals 
merely  as  symbols  to  express  their  meaning.  Re- 
call, or,  better  still,  get  slides  of  the  "Procession  of 
Archers"  and  the  "Marching  Lions,"  in  the  frieze 
of  enamelled  bricks  from  the  palace  of  Artaxerxes 
II,  now  in  the  Louvre;  recall  the  Assyrian  Alabas- 
ter reliefs  from  the  palace  of  Ashurnasirpal,  now 
in  New  York;  recall  the  "King  Stabbing  a  Lion" 
from  the  palace  of  Darius  at  Persepolis,  now  in  the 
Louvre.  Representation?  They  didn't  care  a  fig 
for  it.  Why,  the  lion  in  the  Persepolis  relief  is 
standing  rhythmically  and  heraldically  upon  his 
hind  legs  ready  to  be  stabbed  so  that  he  may  take  his 
place  nicely  in  the  decorative  scheme.  And  the 
strange  thing  is  that  this  symbolic  treatment  is 
more  impressive  and  significant  than  if  the  com- 
bat had  been  portrayed  according  to  academic  rules 
of  representation. 
Fundamental   thought   must   have   gone   to   these 


Art  and  Mr.  X  311 

designs,  and  fundamental  thought  is  just  what  our 
mural  painters  and  architectural  sculptors  (many 
of  them)  avoid.  When  Mr.  Edwin  H.  Blashfield 
painted  his  vast,  highly  coloured,  and  melodramatic 
"Carry  On,"  which  I  observe  now  hangs  in  the 
Metropolitan  Museum  with  the  word  "Purchase" 
inscribed  beneath,  can  he  really  have  thought  that 
looking  at  this  crude  representation  of  war  would 
help  anybody  to  "Carry  On"?  Its  effect  upon  me 
is  to  carry  myself  away  from  it.  The  man  who 
paints  such  a  picture  should  carefully  think  out, 
tefore  he  begins,  the  effect  of  his  message  upon 
the  multitude.  In  the  making  of  patriotic  pictures 
the  mind  should  have  a  larger  share  than  hand 
and  eye. 

If  mural  painters  are  determined  to  instruct 
they  must  use  their  heads;  they  must  realise  that 
they  are  painting  for  the  modern  mind.  The  au- 
thors of  the  sculptures  on  the  Arch  of  Jewels 
should  study  the  architectural  sculptures  of  St. 
Gaudens  and  Stanford  White.  They  said  some- 
thing, and  they  said  it  finely  and  simply.  Mr. 
Bacon  says  something  finely  and  simply  in  his  Lin- 
coln monument  at  Washington,  which,  dear  Mr. 
X  (are  these  hints  serviceable?),  you  should  ex- 
amine on  your  way  back  to  New  York. 
May  I  hope,  dear  Mr.  X,  that  my  words  may 
be  of  some  service  to  your  practical  mind.  No, 
I  do  not  advocate  reading  your  talk  from  manu- 
script. Audiences  like  talks  to  be  talks.  The 
danger  of  a  talk  is  that  you  are  apt  to  adventure 
down  a  byway  and  in  the  course  of  the  divigation 


312  Jrt  and  I 

to  forget  what  you  were  saying  when  you  left  the 
highroad  of  your  talk.  Beware  of  byways.  A 
good  plan  is  to  station  Mrs.  X  at  the  end  of  the 
hall,  with  instructions  to  raise  her  handkerchief 
when  the  byway  is  beginning  to  tempt  you.  Accept, 
dear  Mr,  X,  my  compliments  and  best  wishes. 


9.    ANOTHER  LETTER  TO  MR.  X 

WHAT,  Mr.  X,  more  lectures?  Dear  me! 
Congratulations!  I  am  tickled  by  the  ac- 
count of  your  talk  at  Pugsville,  Florida,  on  Mural 
Painting,  and  the  news  that  the  Go  Ahead  Club 
has  asked  you  to  lecture  again,  at  the  closing  ses- 
sion of  their  course.  You  seem  to  have  been  a 
marked  success  and  your  analysis  of  the  reason 
is  illuminating.  As  you  observe,  most  lecturers 
are  mere  writers,  experts,  and  scholars,  and  that 
you  are  probably  the  first  Man  of  Substance  who 
has  addressed  an  audience  at  Pugsville.  I  can  quite 
understand  what  an  asset  that  is.  A  Man  of  Sub- 
stance, speaking  about  art,  has  a  background  denied 
to  the  mere  student  of  jesthetics.  And  you  did 
well  to  aim,  in  your  platform  manner,  to  quote 
your  own  words,  at  "the  clarity  of  Woodrow  Wil- 
son with  the  bonhomie  of  Burton  Holmes." 
I  note  that  you  have  chosen  "American  Painting, 
Past  and  Present,"  as  the  subject  of  your  Talk. 
Oh,  pardon,  I  must  call  it  Lecture,  as  you  "opine" 
that  the  word  Lecture  has  an  ampler,  a  larger  dig- 
nity than  Talk ;  and  that  you  have  chosen  "Ameri- 
can Painting,  Past  and  Present,"  as  a  subject,  be- 
cause you  feel  the  need  of  an  ample  field  for  your 
remarks.  I  also  note  yor.r  postscript  to  the  effect 
313 


314  ^i"t  and  I 

that  a  few  hints  on  the  subject  of  American  Paint- 
ing, Past  and  Present,  will  not  be  unwelcome. 
I  accept  your  invitation  joyfully,  as  it  enables  me 
to  make  some  disjointed  remarks  about  American 
painting  which  I  should  hardly  have  the  courage 
to  compose  into  more  permanent  form.  Let  me 
divide  my  causerie  into  two  courteous  parts — the 
Past  and  the  Present.  First — the  Past.  Of  course, 
you  must  begin  by  saying  a  few  words  on  "a  cer- 
tain spirit  of  moderation"  so  characteristic  of  Amer- 
ican art,  and  also  something  about  the  willing  de- 
pendence of  American  artists  upon  the  traditions 
of  Europe.  But  you  need  not  stress  this  point,  as 
the  exceptions  are  not  scanty  (Winslow  Homer, 
for  example,  stood  entirely  upon  his  own  feet)  and 
some  of  the  younger  Americans  who  are  begin- 
ning to  make  their  art  cries  heard,  owe  little  to 
anybody.  But  you  might  dwell  upon  the  paradox 
that  it  is  the  old  nations  who  are  daring  in  art,  and 
the  young  nations  who  are  timid.  You  should  be 
able  to  raise  a  smile  by  suggesting  the  following 
as  a  new  crest  for  the  National  Academy  of  De- 
sign— an  Athletic  Figure  with  the  Right  Foot 
firmly  embedded  in  the  Rock  of  the  Acropolis,  and 
the  outstretched  Right  Hand  firmly  grasping  the 
Base  of  a  Skyscraper.  And  you  might  add  that 
the  three  departments  of  art  in  which  America 
excels  are  the  Skyscraper,  Landscape  Painting  and 
Vers  Libre.  If  I  were  asked  to  give  three  prizes 
for  the  best  specimens  of  architecture  in  the  Twen- 
tieth Century  in  the  City  of  New  York  I  would  cite 
the  Woolworth  Building,  the  Bush  Terminal  Build- 


Art  and  Mr.  X  315 

ing,  and  the  Metropolitan  Tower.  These  fulfil  that 
elemental  essential  of  good  architecture — the  growth 
of  beauty  from  utility. 

If  you  have  made  these  points,  dear  Mr.  X,  with 
your  accustomed  smiling  suavity,  I  think  your  au- 
dience should  now  be  alert,  and  ready  to  be  lulled 
into  a  brief  disquisition  on  the  past.  I  know  that 
you  would  like  to  say  something  on  the  Hudson 
River  School,  on  George  Inness,  on  Dwight  W. 
Tryon  and  on  John  La  Farge.  That  is  a  point 
you  must  decide  for  yourself.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  I  am  not  their  man.  The  four  artists  (ex- 
cluding Whistler,  who  was  a  cosmopolitan)  I  would 
suggest  as  the  outstanding  American  artists  of  the 
past  are  Gilbert  Stuart,  Winslow  Homer,  Twacht- 
man,  and  Ryder. 

A  good  Gilbert  Stuart  is  high  up  in  the  first  class 
in  modem  painting.  He  was  a  pupil  of  Benjamin 
West,  but  he  outsoars  West  as  a  1920  airplane  out- 
soars  a  pre-war  model  airplane.  In  delicacy  and 
surety  of  drawing,  in  quality  and  tenderness,  in 
intimate  handling  of  paint,  a  good  Gilbert  Stuart 
can  hang  beside  the  best  Romney,  Hoppner,  or 
Lawrence  and  sometimes  beside  Reynolds  and  Gains- 
borough. 

Winslow  Homer  was  an  old  Master  in  his  life- 
time. If  a  collection  of  his  works  could  be  shown 
today,  say  at  Paris,  I  believe  he  would  be  hailed 
as  the  greatest  painter  of  the  sea  that  art  has  known. 
And  not  only  the  sea.  His  water  colours  are  superb. 
Nothing  stronger  than  "A  Wall,  Nassau,"  and 
"The  Bather"  has  been  done,  and  as  for  "Tornado, 


3i6  Art  and  I 

Bahamas,"  the  way  the  blown  trees  have  been  in- 
dicated with  single  sweeps  of  the  brush  is  a  tour 
de  force  that  places  him  in  a  class  by  himself. 
Twachtman  is  at  the  other  pole  to  Winslow 
Homer's  strength.  He  is  all  delicacy,  yet  a  delicacy 
that  is  never  weak.  A  sensitive  and  exquisite  land- 
scapist  was  John  H.  Twachtman,  and  I  can  speak 
of  his  work  unreservedly  because  I  have  had  the 
privilege  of  studying  it  carefully  in  Mr.  John  Gel- 
latly's  collection.  He  owns  the  finest  Twachtmans 
and  the  finest  Ryders — Albert  P.  Ryder,  that  clois- 
tral, inward  peering  genius  who,  after  working 
upon  a  picture,  ofif  and  on,  for  20  years,  would 
complain  that  a  buyer  wanted  to  take  it  away 
from  him  before  it  was  finished.  Mr.  Gellatly  has 
also  acquired  Ryder's  masterpiece,  "Christ  Appear- 
ing to  Mary."  Had  Ryder  painted  nothing  but 
this  jewel-like  mystery  of  paint  and  feeling,  it 
would  have  placed  him  in  one  of  the  centre  seats 
at  the  high  table  of  American  art. 
And  now  for  the  Present.  That,  dear  Mr.  X, 
is  a  more  difficult  matter,  for  the  workers  in  the 
vineyard  of  art  are  multitudinous,  and  their  ways 
are  various  and  devious.  Suppose  I  limit  my  sug- 
gestions to  two  exhibitions  of  the  moment  and  tell 
you  about  some  of  the  pictures. 
There  is  "Nonchaloir,"  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
small  pictures  John  S.  Sargent  ever  painted.  It  is 
essential  art  as  a  lyric  by  Shelley  is  essential  poetry. 
Then  I  would  like  you  to  dwell  upon  "Wild  He- 
Goat  Dance,"  by  Arthur  B.  Davies — spirited  ro- 
manticism ;  "Winter,"  by  Rockwell  Kent — bold  and 


Art  and  Mr.  X  317 

elemental,  bordering  on  black  and  white,  yet  full 
of  colour;  "Constance,"  by  Gari  Melchers — a  child 
picture,  an  opening  bud,  the  paint  active  with  in- 
telligence. And — but  I  must  not  make  a  cata- 
logue. These  well  chosen  pictures  are  all  excep- 
tional and  agreeable.  They  please,  but  they  do 
not  excite. 

For  excitement,  for  pictures  that  set  the  imagina- 
tion working,  I  must  refer  you  to  such  specimens 
of  modern  art  as  "Aspiration,"' by  Oscar  Bluemner, 
a  remarkable  landscape,  strange  and  new,  that  is 
actually  a  representation  of  the  word  "Aspiration" ; 
to  the  same  painter's  "River,"  one  of  the  series 
he  has  been  making  of  waterside  buildings  scream- 
ingly red,  stridently  blue  or  any  colour  that  has  ob- 
sessed his  colour  imagination;  to  Abraham  Walko- 
witz's  rhythmic  studies,  musical  in  their  swing,  of 
the  dancing  of  Isadora  Duncan  and  her  pupils; 
to  John  Marin's  personal  landscapes;  to  the  work 
of  Lily  Converse,  Maurice  Sterne,  and  Joseph  Stella 
— ah,  catalogue  making  again!  These  are  "les 
jeunes,"  painters  of  abstract  themes,  inquirers; 
these  are  the  artists  who  are  insisting  upon  our 
notice — upon  yours  and  mine. 
I  post  you  the  catalogues  of  these  exhibitions,  dear 
Mr.  X.  From  their  Forewords  and  from  my 
notes  you  may  glean  some  material  for  your  lec- 
ture on  American  Painting — Past  and  Present.  I 
try  to  visualise  you  addressing  the  Go  Ahead  Club 
— the  clarity  of  Mr.  Wilson,  the  bonhomie  of 
Mr.  Burton  Holmes,  combined  with  your  own  im- 
pressive, unaware  manner. 


10.     MR.  X  IS  DISTURBED 

FOR  the  third  time  I  was  visiting  the  "War 
Paintings  and  Drawings  by  British  Artists" 
at  the  Anderson  Galleries,  New  York.  The  call 
was  imperative.  I  could  not  keep  away  from  these 
new  visions  of  war — the  mental  as  well  as  the 
bodily  vicissitudes — by  young  and  youngish  men, 
all  with  the  new  vision.  And  I  wanted  to  see 
again  that  new  type — the  Airman,  world-famous 
in  his  early  twenties,  with  that  look  in  the  eyes, 
the  eagle-look,  yet  calm  and  serene,  that  the  In- 
fantrj^man,  however  heroic,  never  achieves.  There 
they  are,  one  after  the  other,  looking  at  us  so 
quietly  from  the  walls,  caught  to  the  life,  caged, 
if  free  things  can  ever  be  caged,  by  the  swift,  sure 
brush  of  William  Orpen.  And  there  in  the  cata- 
logue we  may  read  thus  of  them — "accounted  for  22 
enemy  aeroplanes — captain  of  Eton  1915-16 — when 
last  seen  was  fighting  two  German  machines." 
Thinking  of  these  matters,  seeing  thus  the  mind 
and  heart  of  the  British  Army  in  these  portraits 
done  at  the  front,  within  the  roar  of  the  guns, 
each  sitting  a  matter  of  a  few  hours,  unessentials 
omitted,  I  went  for  the  third  time  to  the  Ander- 
son Galleries  eager  to  see  these  portraits  again,  and 
Orpen's  "Deserter"  and  "Thinker";  and  John 
Nash's  "Stand  To  Before  Dawn,"  and  Nevinson's 
3i8 


^----'"'-^— ^' 


Art  and  Mr,  X  319 

"The  Road  from  Arras  to  Bapaume,"  an  amazing 
landscape,  and  another  amazing  landscape  by  him 
— a  wood — illustrating  a  poem  by  Siegfried  Sassoon. 
The  conjunction  is  happy.  Nevinson  as  artist,  and 
Sassoon  as  poet,  are  the  two  men  who  have  reached 
nearest  to  the  metallic  heart  of  modern  warfare. 
And  yet,  much  as  I  wanted  to  do  so,  I  did  not  see 
them  that  afternoon,  for  in  the  entrance  hall  I 
encountered  Mr.  X.  And  Mr.  X,  as  you  know 
by  this  time,  is  not  the  kind  of  person  who  permits 
himself  to  be  overlooked. 

The  worthy  man  was  seated  under  a  lamp  in 
a  handsome  armchair  of  carved  walnut,  upholstered 
in  maroon  velvet.  Upon  the  wall,  on  either  side 
of  him,  hung  presentments  of  Chinese  sages,  and 
I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  I  watched  him,  what 
an  admirable  mandarin  Mr.  X  would  have  made 
had  he  lived  in  China  some  centuries  ago.  Like 
the  sages  on  the  wall  he  was  in  repose.  He  was 
reading  a  book,  but  a  certain  flush  on  the  neck, 
and  other  signs,  told  me  that  he  was  seeking  litera- 
ture rather  as  an  emollient  than  as  a  restorative. 
I  suggested  this  and  he  replied,  "Yes,  sir,  I  spent 
two  hours  upstairs  among  the  British  war  pictures, 
and  I  frankly  confess  that  they  have  disturbed  me 
more  than  I  care  to  admit,  more  than  I  care  that 
my  friends  should  perceive.  So  to  recover  my 
equanimity  I  seated  myself  in  this  exceedingly  com- 
fortable chair  and  then  I  proceeded  to  soothe  my- 
self with  literature.  I  always  carry  a  pocket  vol- 
ume. This  happens  to  be  Charles  Dickens'  'Ameri- 
can Notes.'    Let  me  read  you  a  brief  passage  which 


320  Art  and  I 

confutes  the  idea  that  this  book  is  over-critical." 
With  that  the  good  man  read  this  aloud: 
"  'There  is  no  doubt  that  much  of  the  intellec- 
tual refinement  and  superiority  of  Boston  is  refer- 
able to  the  quiet  influence  of  the  University  of 
Cambridge,  which  is  within  three  or  four  miles  of 
the  city.  The  resident  professors  at  that  university 
are  gentlemen  of  learning  and  varied  attainments; 
and  are,  without  one  exception  that  I  can  call  to 
mind,  men  who  would  shed  a  grace  upon,  and  do 
honour  to,  any  society  in  the  civilised  world.' 
"That,"  said  Mr.  X,  "is  a  well-expressed  and  well- 
merited  compliment,  and  its  felicitous  language  ha* 
quite  restored  my  balance,  if  I  may  so  express  it." 
The  good  man  smiled  benignantly.  Really  he  i* 
not  unlike  a  character  in  Dickens,  say  a  brothet 
Cheeryble  with  a  touch  of  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"But,  Mr.  X,"  I  said,  "why  were  you  upset?" 
"Well,  sir,  I  am  always  temporarily  upset  when 
an  onslaught  is  made  upon  my  preconceived  opin- 
ions and  convictions.  I  regard  Great  Britain  as 
a  conservative  country,  and  when  I  recall  her  for- 
mer war  pictures  there  comes  to  mind  Mr.  Horsley's 
excellent  but  rather  unsoldier-like  representation  of 
'Volunteers  at  Wimbledon.'  They  are,  I  remem- 
ber, smiling,  and  they  wear  mutton-chop  whiskers; 
and  also  Sir  Edwin  Landseer's  'Wellington,  in  Old 
Age,  Visiting  the  Field  of  Waterloo.'  Those,  sir, 
are  orthodox  pictures,  but  the  British  war  pictures 
upstairs  are  unorthodox — heterodox.  Why,  sir, 
among  them  are  cubist  and  futurist  paintings,  an 
aberration  I  never  expected  from  the  British  Gov- 


■-■V^^-^i*-^  '■■■  -^^'---'----'^'^^-^ 


Art  and  Mr.  X  321 

emment,  and,  sir  (here  Mr.  X's  manner  became 
almost  malignantly  magisterial),  many  of  Maj.  Sir 
William  Orpen's  pictures  are  not  finished!" 
"Oh,  Mr.  X,"  I  protested,  "surely  you  know,  by 
this  time,  that  an  artist's  work  is  finished  when 
he  has  said  all  that  he  has  to  say.  Why  encumber 
a  picture  with  rhetoric  when  you  have  told  the 
truth  in  quickest  and  briefest  way.  Orpen  fin- 
ishes a  portrait  when  the  truth  needs  it.  Take  his 
'Grenadier  Guardsman.'  That's  finished.  Every 
inch  of  this  powerful  and  forcible  portrait  of  a  type 
is  finished.  A  type!  I  know  why  Orpen  finished 
it.  You  remember  how  a  Grenadier  Guardsman 
looked  before  the  war.  Here  he  is  after  four 
years  of  the  dire  game.  Every  detail  of  him  is 
changed,  is  new;  so  Orpen  painted  every  detail. 
Contrast  this  with  Major  McCudden,  the  most 
decorated  member  of  the  Royal  Air  Force,  who  ac- 
counted for  54  aeroplanes.  The  artist  has  con- 
centrated on  the  head  of  this  fair,  alert  hero,  a 
type  of  the  new  man.  That  is  what  matters — 
the  mind  and  character  of  the  man  who  is  the 
most  decorated  member  of  the  Royal  Air  Force, 
so  the  rest  of  the  canvas  is  almost  left  bare, 
save  for  touches  of  colour  that  hint  the  flare  of 
shells,  and  the  flash  of  his  decorations." 
"I  appreciate  your  explanation,  sir,"  said  Mr.  X. 
"But  I  shall  be  obliged  if  you  will  answer  me  two 
questions.  What  induced  the  British  Government 
to  become — er — extremist  in  matters  of  art,  and 
who  are  these  young  and  youngish  men  who  were 
given  rank  in  the  army,  and  sent  out  to  the  battle- 


322  Art  and  I 

fronts  with  carte  blanche  to  paint  and  draw  any- 
thing they  chose?  Why  were  not  the  elder  battle 
painters  of  established  reputation  sent?  Who  made 
the  choice?" 

"Well,  England  is  fortunate  in  having  at  the  head 
of  such  institutions  as  the  National  Gallery,  the 
Wallace  Collection,  the  Tate  Gallery,  the  War 
Museum,  connoisseurs  who  are  thoroughly  in  sym- 
pathy with  the  new  movement  in  art,  and  who  are 
also  fighters  for  art:  England  is  also  fortunate  in 
having  men  of  insight  and  adaptability  who  hold 
the  positions  of  critics  to  the  leading  journals.  It 
must  have  been  the  united  influence  of  these  men 
of  light  and  leading  that  induced  the  Government 
to  send  these  young  and  youngish  artists  to  the 
war." 

"I  admit  that  youth  must  be  encouraged,  sir,"  re- 
marked Mr.  X.  "Charles  Dickens  was  quite  a 
younp;  man  when  he  wrote  'Sketches  by  Boz,'  " 
"But  these  war  artists  are  not  all  very  young," 
I  said.  "Orpen — I  find  it  quite  impossible  to  call 
him  Maj.  Sir.  William  Orpen — is  not.  He  is  an 
Irishman,  ready  and  witty,  who  performs  the  labours 
of  six  men  with  a  laugh.  The  task  of  painting 
103  pictures  is  no  more  to  him  than  the  labour  of 
writing  prefaces  is  to  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  Nevin- 
son  is  much  younger.  The  war  has  made  him. 
Before  1914  he  had  mastered  an  expert  technique. 
Peace  time  was  too  tame  for  its  employment.     He 

was  all  dressed  up  and  nowhere  to — to " 

Mr.  X  chuckled. 

"War  broke  out  and  he  at  once  found  a  vehicle 


Art  and  Mr.  X  323 

for  his  technique.  Paul  and  John  Nash  are  orig- 
inals. They  were  a  cult  before  1914.  Now  they 
are  emerging,  but  they  keep  their  quaint  vision. 
Spencer  Pryse  is  a  classicist,  who  dips  classicism 
into  a  bath  of  graceful  and  forceful  modernity. 
Muirhead  Bone  was  a  past  master  in  architectural 
drawings  before  the  war.  The  sights  he  has  seen 
have  had  little  effect  upon  his  art.  He  remains  a 
searching  and  exquisite  draftsman.  John  Everett 
has  seen  the  rich  beauty  of  colour  in  the  camou- 
flaged ships.     He  is  the  most  gallant  of  the  war 

artists;  he  gives  to  these  ships  a  beauty " 

I  paused,  because  Mr.  X  was  not  listening.  He 
was  smiling  at  his  own  thoughts,  and  as  he  smiled 
he  began  to  turn  the  pages  of  'American  Notes." 
"You  used  the  word  'gallant,'  sir.  It  is  a  favour- 
ite word  with  Mrs.  X,  and  on  more  than  one 
occasion  she  has  applied  it  to  Charles  Dickens.  And 
upon  my  word,  sir,  I  think  Madame  is  right.  In 
the  early  portion  of  'American  Notes'  he  refers  to 
the  beauty  of  the  ladies  of  Boston,  and  on  page 
108  he  uses  almost  precisely  the  same  term  in 
reference  to  the  ladies  of  New  York. 
"There  was  no  camouflage  about  Charles  Dickens 
— no,  sir!" 

Suddenly  his  face  became  grave.  "The  British 
War  Pictures  are  disturbing,  sir.  I  repeat  it.  I 
might  almost  use  the  word  audacious.  May  I 
suggest  to  you,  that  when  the  opportunity  offers, 
you  should  drop  into  the  official  ear  that  admirable 
slang  phrase — "Go  slow." 


324  Art  and  I 

He  said  It  twice.    He  was  so  pleased  with  himself 
that  the  cloud  passed  from  his  face. 
"Go  slow."     You  take  me,  sir? 
He  beamed. 


11.    MR.  X  AND  WHISTLER 

THE  bathing  season  was  over.  Deserted  was 
the  beach.  I  sat  on  a  bench  in  front  of  the 
dressing-room  pavilion,  the  doors  locked,  the  pat- 
ter of  feet  stilled,  rather  enjoying  the  silence  and 
isolation;  and  immensely  enjoying  the  beauty  of 
the  moveless,  many-coloured  sea.  Such  a  sea 
Whistler,  perhaps  only  he,  could  have  suggested. 
He  might  have  called  his  picture  "Variations  in 
Violet  and  Green  No.  2"  (he  painted  one  under 
that  title)  and  then  some  donkey  of  a  critic  would 
cry — "But  it's  blue."  So  it  was.  It  was  blue. 
But  it  was  also  violet  and  green,  constantly  chang- 
ing, variations  in  violet  and  green.  And  some 
yards  from  the  shore  was  the  diving  float,  or  raft, 
the  surface  a  dazzling  white.  The  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  caught  it:  that  dazzling  splash  of  white 
helped  the  blue,  made  it  still  more  wonderful.  It 
was  a  lovely  scene.  Alas,  it  would  fade  so  quickly. 
I  thought  of  Artemus  Ward  who,  when  his  little 
son  said  to  him — "Papa,  why  do  summer  roses 
fade?"  answered — "Because  it's  their  biz.  Let  'em 
fade." 

Did  I  say  that  the  shore  was  deserted?  Not  quite. 
Far  in  front  of  me,  at  the  sea  end  of  the  boarding 
promenade,  sat  a  girl  crouched  up,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  horizon.    She  wore  a  vivid  red  jersey.    Thus 

325 


326  Art  and  I 

the  colour  scheme  of  the  picture  was — red,  white 
and  blue — a  note  of  violet  red,  a  splash  of  glit- 
tering white,  and  that  stretch  of  blue,  in  which 
was  violet  and  green — indeed  all  shades.  "Needs 
a  bit  of  black,  somewhere,"  I  murmured.  Even 
as  I  spoke  the  bit  of  black  intruded,  entered  the 
scene  with  quiet  dignity. 

Perhaps  you  may  think  that  I  am  romancing. 
Nevertheless  it  was  he — our  excellent  friend,  Mr. 
X.  Afar  I  recognised  him,  musing  by  the  sad 
sea  waves,  then  walking  forward,  slowly  progress- 
ing toward  the  point  where  I  sat.  Now  and  again 
he  paused,  and  once  stood  with  arms  folded,  gaz- 
ing at  nothing,  in  the  attitude  of  Napoleon  on 
board  the  Bellerophon.  I  hailed  him.  He  waved, 
and  advanced  as  majestically  as  one  can  in  thin 
shoes  on  a  pebbly  beach. 

After  salutations  and  inquiries  as  to  each  other's 
summer  activities,  he  said — "And  so  you  have  been 
writing  an  art  article  each  week.  Remarkable! 
My  felicitations!  But  tell  me,  my  friend,  is  not 
the  finding  of  a  subject  sometimes — er — difficult?" 
"Not  at  all,  dear  Mr.  X.  If  one  is  deeply  in- 
terested in  art  it  is  surprising  how  many  interest- 
ing subjects  spring  up  during  the  week,  subjects 
which  might  easily  be  missed  by  the  general  pub- 
lic if  their  attention  was  not  drawn  to  them. 
I  let  the  subjects  of  the  week  simmer,  and  toward 
Saturday,  when  the  time  has  come  to  begin  my 
article,  one  subject  always  enlarges  and  clamours 
for  consideration." 


Art  and  Mr.  X  327 

"An  excellent  method,"  said  the  good  man,  "and 
pray,  sir,  what  is  your  subject  for  next  week?" 
"Look  around  you,  Mr.  X,  look  at  the  value  of 
these  yellow  sands  against  that  blue  sea;  note  how 
the  waters  fade  into  the  sky  at  the  horizon  in  in- 
distinguishable rosy-grey.  What  painter  does  this 
exquisite  sight  recall  to  you?" 
Mr.  X  reflected,  gravely  studying  the  panorama. 
"May  I  suggest,  sir,  that  it  is  reminiscent  of  a  land- 
scape background  in  an  early  Sienese  picture." 
I  looked  at  him  with  indignation.  Sometimes  Mr. 
X  tries  to  be  clever.  "No,  sir;  the  Sienese  land- 
scapes are  archaic  and  ill  done  in  spite  of  their 
sincerity.  This  scene  should  remind  you  of  one 
whom  I  may  call  the  most  accomplished  artist  of 
modern  times — James  McNeill  Whistler — as  great 
with  the  figure  as  in  rendering  these  exquisite 
crepuscular  effects,  and  who  was  the  first  Anglo- 
Saxon  to  state  in  the  written  word  the  essence  of 
pure  artistry.  But  I  need  not  point  out  to  a  man 
of  your  insight,  dear  Mr.  X,  that  'The  Ten 
O'clock'  did  not  say  all  there  is  to  be  said  about 
art.  It  was  a  perfect  expression  of  the  Whistlerian 
creed,  but  life  and  art  are  greater  than  the 
Whistlerian  creed.  Art  contains  something  more 
than  supreme  taste.  Why,  while  'The  Ten 
O'clock'  was  being  delivered,  the  'fauves,'  the 
savages,  were  girding  themselves  for  the  warpath: 
Van  Gogh  and  Gauguin  were  preparing  their  ar- 
tistic bombs:  Cezanne  was  laboriously  and  slowly 
effecting  a  revolution:  and  while  Whistler,  that 
night  in  1885,  was  chastising  those  who  make  any 


328  Art  and  I 

sort  of  an  alliance  between  art  and  literature,  a 
mild-mannered  gentleman  who  was  present  at  the 
lecture  whispered  to  his  companion — 'Michelangelo 
was  a  pretty  good  painter,  and  he  made  a  pretty 
good  alliance  between  art  and  literature  on  the 
ceiling  of  the  Sistine  chapel.'  " 
"True,"  said  Mr.  X.  I  have  never  met  our  friend's 
equal  for  giving  emphasis  to  a  monosyllable. 
"So  you  see,"  I  continued,  "Whistler  seems  to  be 
coming  into  our  limelight  this  week.  And  there 
is  something  else,  indeed  two  or  three  other  current 
episodes,  that  urge  me  to  keep  him  there.  In  Lon- 
don, in  the  spring  of  1917,  I  spent  an  afternoon  at 
Mr.  Arthur  Studd's  house  in  Chelsea.  It  was  a 
memorable  afternoon,  because  on  the  walls  of  the 
room  where  we  had  tea — a  large  apartment  with 
tall  windows  overlooking  the  Thames — hung  three 
Whistlers.  One  was  'Cremome  Lights,'  a  noc- 
turne in  blue  and  silver,  a  twilight  scene  in  two 
tones,  such  as  the  sight  we  see  before  us  now;  the 
second  was  'The  Fire  Wheel,'  a  nocturne  in  black 
and  gold;  the  third  was  'The  Little  White  Girl,' 
a  symphony  in  white,  which  Mr.  Pennell,  his  biog- 
rapher, calls  'the  most  complete,  the  most  perfect 
picture  he  ever  painted.'  It  was  exhibited  at  the 
Royal  Academy  in  1865:  it  captivated  Swinburne 
and  he  wrote  some  verses  for  it.  The  poem  was 
printed  on  gold  paper  and  pasted  upon  the  frame, 
but  it  has  disappeared.  These  three  pictures  are 
now  in  the  National  Gallery  of  London.  They 
were  bequeathed  by  Arthur  Studd,  a  lifelong  ad- 
mirer and  friend  of  Whistler's." 


Art  and  Mr.  X  329 

Mr.  X,  I  am  glad  to  report,  did  not  say  "Some 

gift!" 

"So  London,"  I  continued,  "is  now  rich  in 
Whistlers,  but  nothing  compared  to  Washington 
through  Charles  L.  Freer's  magnificent  gift.  When 
the  new  building  is  opened  (Mr.  Freer  gave  $1,- 
000,000  to  house  his  collection)  it  will  be  found 
that  Washington  possesses  the  greatest  assembly 
of  Whistlers  in  the  world.  Some  years  ago  when 
Mr.  Freer  showed  me  his  collection  in  Detroit, 
his  Whistlers,  including  lithographs,  pastels  and 
etchings,  numbered  over  1100  items." 
Mr.  X  mused.  "The  collector,"  he  said,  "who 
leaves  his  treasures  to  the  nation  deserves  our 
highest  commendation.  He  passes  on  his  love  for 
beauty.  Do  you  think,  sir,  that  living  with  beau- 
tiful things  improves  the  character?" 
"To  be  quite  frank,  Mr.  X,  I  answer — no.  Of 
course  it  may  do  so,  but  generally  speaking  a  fond- 
ness for  exterior  beauty  does  not  change  the  dis- 
position. Why  should  it?  Improvement  comes 
from  within,  not  from  without.  Take  the  case  of 
Whistler.  His  feeling  for  beauty  was  phenomenal, 
his  taste  was  unrivalled,  but — have  you  read  his 
'Gentle  Art  of  Making  Enemies'?" 
"No,  sir." 

"Well,  it's  one  of  the  smartest  and  wittiest  art 
books  that  were  ever  written,  and  also  the  crud- 
est and  unkindest.  He  had  no  pity  for  an  enemy: 
he  had  no  pity  for  Sheridan  Ford,  who  suggested 
the  book,  and  worked  hard  upon  it  until,  well,  until 
Whistler  changed  his  mind  and  determined  to  edit 


330  Art  and  I 

the  'Gentle  Art'  himself.  It's  a  long  stoiy  and  it 
floated  back  into  currenqr  when  a  rare  copy  of 
the  'Gentle  Art,'  'edited  by  Sheridan  Ford,'  was 
sold  at  auction  in  the  Avery  sale.  It  was  described 
as  a  unique  copy  of  the  excessively  rare  Paris 
edition,  issued  after  Mr.  Ford's  Antwerp  edition 
was  seized,  and  it  was  found  impossible  to  secure 
a  publisher  either  in  England  or  America.  This 
volume  contains  extra  letters  and  anecdotes.  If 
I  were  an  excessively  rich  man  I  should  have  bought 
it,  for  this  unique  'Gentle  Art'  has  an  especial 
interest  for  me." 
"Why  so,  sir?" 

"Merely  because  I  dined  with  Whistler  at  the 
Savoy  Hotel,  in  London,  one  night  in  the  year 
1890,  just  after  he  had  seized  the  'pirated'  copies, 
and  acquired,  as  he  expressed  it,  'Sheridan  Ford's 
scalp.'  The  dinner  was  fixed  for  8,15.  He  ar- 
rived at  9.20  in  the  gayest  mood  and  dandiacally 
garbed.  His  gold-headed  cane  was  almost  as  tall 
as  himself.  He  talked  the  whole  evening  of  his 
triumph  over  the  unfortunate  Sheridan  Ford,  and 
I  don't  know  which  was  the  more  abundant,  his 
wit  or  his  venom.  No,  Mr.  X,  I  am  afraid  that 
a  love  of  beauty  does  not  necessarily  connote  loving- 
kindness." 

Here  Mr.  X  shivered.  "Suppose,  sir,"  he  said, 
"we  continue  this  interesting  conversation  at  some 
adjacent  hostelry." 

On  our  way  through  the  village  it  was  pleasant 
to  note  the  deference  paid  by  the  natives  to  my 
companion's  majestical  air.     It  seemed  quite  fitting 


Art  and  Mr.  X  331 

that  he  should  remark,  as  we  passed  a  photogra- 
pher's shop — "It  would  be  a  gratifying  episode  in 
one's  life  to  be  painted  by  an  artist  of  Mr. 
Whistler's  calibre." 

I  assented,  and  presently  touched  upon  his  col- 
lection of  pictures. 

Mr.   X   smiled.      "I   will   borrow   a  phrase  from 
your  ex-Prime  Minister — 'Wait  and  see.' 
Is  Mr.  X  beginning  to  bore  me? 


>  >> 


12.     MR.  X  IN  A  PLAY 

THE  post  informs  me  that  Mr.  X  has  an  ad^ 
mirer  in  Florida  who  desires  to  possess  his 
photograph.  I  mentioned  this  to  the  good  man. 
He  refused  flatly,  and  added,  "I  should  blush  to 
think,  sir,  that  a  presentment  of  my  features  was 
being  handed  round  from  hand  to  hand."  In  spite 
of  this  I  cannot  resist  relating  how,  one  evening  at 
the  play,  when  Mr.  X  was  seated  by  my  side,  f 
saw  him,  to  my  confusion,  on  the  stage.  The  ad- 
mirer in  Florida,  and  others,  may  take  this  hint, 
and  watch  for  a  revival  of  "Dear  Brutus." 
It  seems  that  Maria,  a  cousin  of  Mr.  X's  wife, 
had  been  urging  him  to  see  "Dear  Brutus"  by  Sir 
J.  M.  Barrie.  "Now  that  you  have  more  leisure, 
Thomas,"  she  wrote,  "since  the  Bath  Business  has 
been  converted  into  a  Company,  Inc.,  I  think  you 
should  more  fully  cultivate  the  amenities  of  life. 
Sir  James  is  a  whimsical  writer,  and  I  suggest  that 
you  may  obtain  from  his  play  an  interesting  lesson 
in  the  attractive  quality  of  "Whimsicality." 
Mr.  X,  who  is  the  most  complaisant  of  men,  at 
once  assented,  purchased  two  orchestra  stalls,  and 
invited  me  to  accompany  him  to  "Dear  Brutus," 
which  I  had  already  seei^  Mr.  X  has  an  ad- 
mirable theatre  manner,  and  I  was  pleased  to  see, 
as  he  took  his  seat,  that  his  bulky,  but  dignified 
332 


Art  and  Mr.  X  335 

figure  attracted  considerable  attention.  He  wore  a 
dinner  jacket  and  a  stiff  white  shirt,  with  a  black 
tie,  and  he  explained  to  me,  in  a  whisper,  why  he 
appeared  in  this  moderate  evening  garb  at  a  fash- 
ionable theatre.  "Although,  sir,  the  Great  War  is 
over,  I  do  not  think  that  during  the  arduous  re- 
construction period  one  should  don — er — tails,  a 
white  waistcoat,  and  a  flower." 
He  perused  the  programme  and  read  aloud  the 
Shakespearean  tag  that  follows  the  title:  "The 
fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars,  but  in  our- 
selves, that  we  are  underlings."  To  which  he  made 
the  comment,  "Cryptic,  sir,  but  we  shall  see!  The 
play's  the  thing.     Ha!  ha!" 

Then  he  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  back  of  the 
stall  in  front  of  him  and,  making  a  half  turn  to- 
ward me,  said,  "Maria  has  insisted  upon  the 
whimsicality  of  Sir  James  Barrie.  Pray,  sir,  is 
that,  in  your  opinion,  a  quality  that  may  be  ac- 
quired? Was  it  inherent  in  Sir  James,  or  did  he 
learn  it  at  a  School  of  Journalism,  such  as  we  have 
in  Columbia  University?  Perhaps  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  this  whimsical  playwright  and 
author?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  known  him  for  years;  knew 
him  in  the  days  before  he  wrote  plays,  when  he 
suddenly  delighted  London  with  his  humorous  es- 
says in  the  St.  James's  Gazette.  Their  whimsical, 
fantastical,  sly,  sentimental,  sob-stuff,  and  laughter- 
stuff  humour  was  patent  to  everybody.  Barrie  was 
the  parent  of  the  Kailyard  School  and  he  made  the 
Scotsman  almost  as  lovable  as  the  Irishman.     Of 


334  ^^t  ^nd  I 

course,  he's  a  sentimentalist:  he  glories  In  it,  but 
his  humour,  ever  bubbling,  always  saves  the  situa- 
tion. He's  freakish,  and  he  can  sting  prettily;  but 
he's  never  bitter  nor  lashing  like  Shaw  and  W.  S. 
Gilbert. 

"His  whimsicality  has  grown,  nurtured,  I  think, 
by  his  love  for  children,  and  his  ability  to  invent 
stories  for  them.  No,  Sir  James's  whimsicality 
hasn't  been  acquired.  It's  just  grown  as  he's  grown. 
As  novelist  and  playwright  he  is  the  most  natural 
of  writers.  He  feels  something;  the  sociological 
truth  at  the  back  of  'The  Admirable  Crichton'; 
the  eternal  truth  about  the  childhood  of  'Peter 
Pan';  the  inner  literary  knowledge  of  fatherhood 
at  the  back  of  'A  Well-Remembered  Voice';  his 
imagination — impish,  idealistic,  tearful,  tender, 
ironic — flutters  about  the  theme,  and  a  play  is  made 
out  of  fanciful  material  which  no  other  dramatist 
Avould  dream  of  handling.  He,  of  course,  is  Peter 
Pan;  he  is  the  child  who  can  never  grow  up;  and 
because  he  keeps  this  childlike  vision,  he  strikes 
truth  oftener  than  the  learned;  and  because  there 
is  something  of  the  child  lingering  in  all  of  us,  his 
audience  is  universal,  and  he  is  the  most  successful 
of  living  playwrights. 

"I  don't  know  the  genesis  of  'Dear  Brutus,*  The 
idea  may  have  come  to  him  after  seeing  'A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,'  but  it's  all  delightfully 
modernized.  Lob  is  a  Twentieth  Century  Puck; 
Matey,  his  butler  and  fellow  conspirator  in  the 
midsummer-eve  revel  of  the  second  act,  is  a 
Twentieth    Century    Bottom.      Lob    and    Matey 


Art  and  Mr.  X  335 

know  what  is  in  store  for  the  guests  in  the  magical 
wood  on  that  midsummer  night ;  they  know  that  in 
that  Barrie  never-never  land,  east  of  the  sun  and 
west  of  the  moon,  these  worldlings  will  be  given  a 
second  chance,  an  opportunity  to  live  their  lives 
over  again — a  new  birth,  and  a  fresh  choice." 
"Does  Sir  James  show  any  of  this — er — curious 
quality  of  whimsicality  in  his  appearance  and  con- 
versation?" asked  Mr.  X. 

"Yes  and  no !  He's  a  little,  alert  man  with  watch- 
ful eyes  and  a  big  brow;  he's  retiring  and  unim- 
portant looking.  I  mean  he  doesn't  look  like  Mr. 
McAdoo  in  the  movies.  He's  silent  in  company, 
and  he  has  a  way  of  lurking  in  corners  and  curling 
up  in  chairs  like  Lob  in  this  play.  You  could  al- 
most put  him  in  your  pocket,  Mr.  X." 
Here  I  paused  to  take  breath.  Mr.  X  was  sagely 
nodding  his  head  and  staring  at  the  top  of  the  stall 
in  front  of  him,  as  if  he  were  visualising  the  small, 
whimsical  figure  of  Sir  James  M.  Barrie  standing 
there  shyly. 

Then  the  lights  in  the  theatre  went  down;  then 
the  curtain  went  up,  and  then  something  happened, 
that  was  really  most  embarrassing. 
Matey,  the  butler,  large,  pompous,  dignified,  funny, 
and,  alas,  a  rascal,  appears  early  in  the  first  act.  I 
started  and  glanced  uneasily  at  Mr.  X;  but  in  the 
darkness  could  not  determine  if  he  shared  my  sur- 
prise and  apprehension.  For  Matey  bore  an  amaz- 
ing resemblance  to  Mr.  X.  Indeed,  he  was  his 
double — figure,  deportment,  utterance,  mutton- 
chop  whiskers — everything.     Can  Mr.  Louis  Cal- 


23^  ^^t  and  I 

vert,  that  excellent  actor,  have  seen  Mr.  X  in  life, 
and  have  modelled  the  part  on  him?  Had  Matey 
been  one  of  Sir  James's  sympathetic  characters  it 
would  not  have  mattered;  but  Matey  is  an  amus- 
ing scamp.  He  has  his  second  chance  in  the  magical 
wood,  and  he  repeats  his  larceny  on  a  larger  and 
more  lucrative  scale.  Poor  Mr.  X!  Did  he  realize 
the  likeness?  If  he  did,  he  dissembled  admirably. 
A  world-wide  experience  of  plumbers  has  given  him 
a  unique  command  over  his  astonishment. 
The  dramatic  intensity  of  the  close  of  the  first  act, 
when  the  characters  step  out  of  the  magical  wood 
certainly  impressed  Mr.  X.  But  he  did  not  allow 
any  feeling  for  art  to  interfere  with  his  disapproval 
of  the  alcoholic  propensities  of  the  broken-down 
artist.  "It  is  well,  sir,  that  America  has  gone  dry," 
said  Mr.  X. 

Matey,  as  a  successful  company  promoter,  in  his 
second  chance  in  the  second  act,  was  not  so  violent 
an  image  of  Mr.  X  as  when  he  wore  his  butler's 
clothes;  but  the  likeness  was  near  enough  to  be 
disconcerting  to  me.  Fortunately,  most  of  the  scene 
is  a  dialogue  between  the  artist,  new  born,  inter- 
ested in  painting,  not  in  alcohol,  with  a  young 
daughter,  the  fruit  of  his  happier  second  chance. 
I  found  the  scene  between  the  artist  and  his  dream 
daughter  a  little  tedious,  but  Mr.  X  was  delighted. 
He  patted  the  arm  of  his  seat,  not  knowing  that 
actors  do  not  care  twopence  about  subtle  applause. 
Strange  it  is  how  prone  to  sentiment  successful 
business  men  are.  When,  at  the  close  of  the  act, 
little  Margaret,  alone  in  the  magical  woods,  cries, 


Art  and  Mr.  X  337 

"I  don't  want  to  be  a  might-have-been,"  Mr.  X 
murmured,  "Poor  child."  His  comment  on  the  act 
was,  "Whimsical,  sir,  but  creepy.  Sir  James  Bar- 
rie's  humour  is  very  unlike  Mr.  Al  Jolson's." 
Mr.  X  was  vastly  entertained  by  the  third  act, 
wherein  the  characters  return  from  the  magical 
wood  to  Lob's  house,  and  gradually  lose  conscious- 
ness of  the  experience  of  their  second  chance.  Hg 
laughed  heartily  at  the  line,  "Keep  hold  of  the 
hard-boiled  eggs,"  and  when  Matey  emerges  from 
the  idea  that  he  Is  a  millionaire  company  promoter, 
and  realising  that  he  is  a  mere  butler,  prepares  to 
return  downstairs,  Mr.  X  remarked  gravely,  "Yes, 
his  proper  place." 

The  good  man  seemed  to  have  got  It  into  his  head 
that  the  Puck-like  character  of  Lob,  Puck  In  early 
Nineteenth  Century  smallclothes,  was  really  Sir 
James  Barrie  in  disguise.  "A  most  whimsical  char- 
acter," he  said,  and  when  at  the  close  Matey  seizes 
hold  of  the  big  chair  In  which  Lob  Is  curled  up, 
and,  turning  it  swiftly  round  finds  that  Lob  has 
vanished,  Mr.  X  said,  "That  isn't  whimsicality, 
sir,  that's  sheer  legerdemain." 

Later  over  a  cup  of  cocoa  and  a  club  sandwich, 
Mr.  X  expressed  his  high  approval  of  "Dear 
Brutus." 

"A  most  diverting  play,"  he  said,  "with  ideas  at 
the  back  of  it  that  compel  thought.  But  Sir 
James's  character  drawing  Is  unequal.  Consider, 
for  example,  the  part  of  Matey,  the  dishonest,  but 
not  unamusing  butler.  In  appearance  and  manner 
he  is  quite  unlike  any  British  butler  that  I  have 


33^  Art  and  I 

ever  seen.  It  is  not  generally  known,  sir,  that  al- 
though I  am  a  naturalised  American,  and  Amer- 
ican to  the  back-bone,  I  was  born  in  England,  on 
Brixton  Hill.  Many  of  the  people  of  the  detached 
houses  of  that  neighbourhood  keep  butlers,  and  this 
man  Matey  does  not  bear  the  slightest  resemblance 
to  any  of  the  types  that  I  have  seen  there.  No,  sir, 
I  shall  write  to  Maria  and  tell  her  that  whimsicality' 
is  all  very  well,  but  that  we  must  not  be  whimsical 
at  the  expense  of  truth." 


13.    MR.  X  AS  A  FATHER 

IT  has  not  been  my  habit  to  introduce  domes- 
tic matters  into  this  record.  But  something 
has  happened  in  the  domestic  world,  linking  itself, 
strange  to  say,  with  the  applied  arts,  that  I  break 
my  rule.  The  event  must  have  a  paragraph  to 
itself. 

Mrs.  X  has  presented  Mr.  X  with  a  fine  boy. 
Of  course  I  conveyed  my  felicitations  to  Mr.  X 
in  person.  I  found  the  good  man  more  expansive 
and  expressive  than  ever.  It  was  a  delight  to 
watch  him  pacing  his  apartment  reading  aloud  a 
list  of  Christian  names  that  he  had  compiled,  roll- 
ing them  on  his  tongue.  He  decided  finally  on 
Woodrow  Theodore. 

"A  double-barreled  compliment,  sir,"  he  said. 
A  pause. 

"Now  comes  the  question  of  extra  accommoda- 
tion," he  continued,  uttering  the  words  slowly  as 
a  man  does  when  he  thinks  aloud.  "I  may  say, 
sir,  that  when  I  purchased  this  duplex  apartment 
I  did  not  anticipate  this — er — happy  event.  We 
shall  now  require  some  additional  rooms.  It  is 
my  purpose  to  acquire  the  apartment  above  this, 
and  colloquially  speaking,  sir,  to  knock  a  hole 
through  the  ceiling,  perhaps  two  holes,  to  install 
339 


340  Art  and  I 

extra  staircases,  and  reserve  the  upper  apartment  en- 
tirely for  Woodrow  Theodore  and  his  entourage." 
"That's  rather  a  large  order,  Mr.  X,"  I  hazarded. 
With  an  ample  gesture  he  waved  away  my  pusil- 
lanimous interjection:  a  dreamy  far-horizon  look 
came  into  his  eyes — "Owing  possibly  to  the  bathless 
conditions  under  which  our  brave  soldiers  lived  in 
France,  I  may  tell  you,  sir,  that  the  Bath  Tub 
Business  was  never  better.  I  can  well  afford  to 
indulge  myself  with  architecture  and  the  applied 
arts.  But  please  understand  that  my  indulgence 
is  not  personal.  Although  the  world  does  not  gen- 
erally know  it,  I  have  views,  strong  views,  on  the 
upbringing  of  children.  Their  education  should  be 
visual  as  v/ell  as  auditory.  I  intend  that  Woodrow 
Theodore  shall  grow  up  in  surroundings  as  per- 
fect as  good  taste,  good  workmanship  and  money 
can  supply.  His  dawning  mind  shall  develop  amid 
the  highest  forms  of  decoration  and  applied  art 
that  the  twentieth  century,  the  crown  of  civilisa- 
tion, can  show.  I  shall  call  this  upper  apartment 
the  Woodrow  Theodore  wing.  It  will  be  a  model 
for  parents.  I  am  inclined  to  design  the  furni- 
ture myself." 

"Like  Mr.  Louis  Tiffany,"  I  interposed. 
Mr.  X  gazed  steadfastly  at  me  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said  most  impressively,  "If  you  will  permit 
me  to  say  so,  sir,  I  have  rather  outgrown  the 
Tiffany  method  of  decoration.  Once  I  cried  aloud 
in  the  wilderness  the  merits  of  the  Tiffany  favrile 
glass,  but  now — ah,  sir,  change  and  progress.  I  will 
put   my   artistic  advancement   in   the   form   of   an 


Art  and  Mr.  X  341 

epigram — 'Exit  William  Kent ;  enter  Robert  Adam.* 
My  audiences  invariably  applaud  that  sentiment, 
because  I  always  say  it  with  emphasis,  but  I  doubt 
if  all  of  them  know  exactly  what  I  mean.  I  am 
not  quite  sure  myself.  I  learn  slowly,  sir." 
Here  the  admirable  man  paused,  and  I  could  see 
by  certain  rhythmic  movements  of  his  ample  body 
that  some  thought  was  amusing  him.  Presently 
he  learned  toward  me,  slapped  me  on  the  knee, 
and  said — "I  should  like  to  form  a  School  for 
Parents.  How  can  I  correct  Woodrow  Theodore's 
aesthetic  faults,  until  I  first  learn  how  to  correct 
my  own?  What  do  you  say  to  A  Parents'  Mu- 
seum? Do  you  remember  that  you  once  wrote 
about  A  Citizens'  Musuem  in  which  you  canvassed 
the  claims  of  'Practical  Art?'  Good.  Why  not 
call  it  A  Parents'  Museum  ?  Such  a  museum  would 
show  me  how  to  furnish  and  decorate  the  Wood- 
row  Theodore  wing  in  a  way  that  would  insure  his 
growing  up  with  the  best  examples  of  the  decora- 
tive and  applied  arts  always  before  him.  Now,  sir, 
I  am  all  attention.  Would  you  be  so  good  as  to 
enlarge  upon  your  proposed  Citizens'  Museum?" 
He  sank  deeper  into  his  chair:  he  folded  his  hands 
across  his  waistcoat.  This  signified  that  Mr.  X 
was  ready  and  willing  to  listen. 
For  a  few  moments  I  looked  steadily  at  his  large, 
eager  face,  then  I  began — "Your  point,  Mr.  X,  is 
clear  to  me.  You  are  desirous  of  furnishing  the 
Woodrow  Theodore  wing  with  the  best  modern 
furniture,  designed  for  modern  needs,  and  expres- 
sive of  twentieth  century  taste  and  culture.     When 


342  Art  and  I 

you  say  that  you  prefer  Robert  Adam  to  William 
Kent  you  mean  simply  that  you  prefer  the  simple 
and  the  severe  to  the  rococo  and  the  gaudy.  You 
are  a  modern  man;  you  are  known  as  the  inventor- 
constructor  of  the  perfect  modern  Bath  Tub,  per- 
haps the  finest  current  example  of  meeting  a  w^ant 
materially  and  artistically;  and  you  wish  your  new 
furniture  to  be  just  as  expressive  of  our  own 
time,  as  your  Bath  Tub,  done  as  perfectly  as  it 
can  be  done  by  designers  and  craftsmen  working 
in  the  twentieth  century." 
Three  times  Mr.  X  inclined  his  head  gravely. 
"But  when  you  seek  the  best  examples  of  modern 
furniture,  you  are,  as  you  express  it,  all  at  sea.  In 
museums  you  are  confronted  with  countless  exam- 
ples of  furniture  of  a  past  day,  going  back  for 
hundreds  of  years:  in  stores  and  shops  you  are  be- 
wildered by  innumerable  specimens  of  every  kind 
of  furniture,  usually  copied  from  past  examples. 
But  you  find  no  guidance,  no  authoritative  speci- 
mens of  twentieth  century  furniture  approved  by 
experts.  You  are  offered  endless  pieces  called  by 
the  names  of  past  makers,  but  none  by  living  makers. 
Every  age  seems  to  be  honoured  except  our  own." 
Again  Mr.  X  inclined  his  head  three  times  gravely. 
"Your  dream  is  A  Citizens'  Museum — pardon,  A 
Parents'  Museum — which  would  consist  of  a  num- 
ber of  rooms,  or  even  of  houses,  each  furnished 
with  prize  pieces  of  furniture  and  accessories, 
chosen  by  men  who  have  made  this  subject  their 
special  study  and  which  would  serve  as  model  to 
people  like  yourself  who  are  suddenly  confronted 


Art  and  Mr.  X  343 

with  the  problem  of  furnishing.  Annual  prizes  are 
given  for  pictures,  why  should  not  annual  prizes 
be  given  for  articles  of  furniture  from  a  bed  to 
a  bell-push,  from  a  bookcase  to  an  electric-light 
fitting?  And  why  should  not  these  prize  things 
be  arranged  in  rooms  as  they  ought  to  be  arranged, 
so  that  parents  and  others  may  learn  what  is  right 
and  what  is  wrong,  what  to  choose  and  what  to 
avoid?  Why  should  there  not  be  a  National  Acad- 
emy of  Crafts?     Why  is  every  age  exploited  but 

our  own  ?    Why ?" 

Mr.  X  rose  and  grasped  my  hand.  He  paused  as 
if  listening.  "We  will  continue  this  conversation 
presently,"  he  murmured.  "The  idea  of  A  Parents' 
Museum  pleases  me.  Stay.  Did  you  hear 
anything?" 

I  listened  and  was  aware  of  an  infant's  cry,  re- 
mote but  shrill.  Mr.  X  ran  to  the  door.  I  had 
never  seen  him  run  before.     There  was  something 

almost  sublime  in  his  movement. 

*         *         * 

Mr.  X  never  breaks  his  word,  so  I  am  confident 
that  his  collection  of  American  and  British  ad- 
vanced pictures  will  one  day  be  formed.  But 
Woodrow  Theodore  has  intervened.  WTiat  will 
happen  ? 


14.    GOOD-BYE  TO  MR.  X 

I  AM  angry  with  Mr.  X.  I  have  almost  de- 
cided to  ignore  him  until  he  shows  signs  of 
common  sense  in  regard  to  his  infant,  Woodrow 
Theodore.  His  interest  in  Advanced  Art  appears 
to  be  in  abeyance;  he  has  eyes  and  ears  for  nothing 
but  that  uninteresting  baby:  worse,  he  has  back- 
slided,  resumed  his  admiration  for  an  effete  kind 
of  art  (I  cannot  spell  it  with  a  capital)  that  was 
popular  in  the  time  of  Queen  Victoria  and  Abra- 
ham Lincoln.     Listen! 

I  called  upon  Mr.  X  with  the  intention  of  in- 
viting him  to  accompany  me  to  the  Press  View  of 
an  exhibition  of  Advanced  Art,  and  I  found  him 
— well,  you  would  hardly  believe  it ! 
Around  a  white,  woolly  rug  stretched  upon  the 
floor  he  had  formed  a  sort  of  zareba  inclosing  his 
sprawling,  swaddled  child.  Two  chairs  and  a 
screen  formed  three  of  the  walls  of  the  zareba,  the 
fourth  wall  was  a  huge  steel  engraving,  framed  in 
mahogany,  discoloured  and  dirty,  that  I  should  have 
thought  now  existed  only  in  junk  shops.  It  is 
called  "The  Ironworker  and  King  Solomon":  it 
was  painted  by  Prof.  C.  Schusserle  in  1864  and  en- 
graved by  John  Sartain  of  Philadelphia  in  1871. 
Where  Mr.  X  found  it  I  know  not.  From  the 
dim  recesses  of  what  lumber  room  he  exhumed  it 

344 


Art  and  Mr.  X  345 

I  cannot  guess.  But  there  it  was,  propped  up  on 
the  polished  floor  of  his  brand-new  apartment,  one 
of  the  walls  of  his  nursery  zareba. 
I  have  worse  news.  Woodrow  Theodore  is  im- 
mensely attracted  by  this  preposterous  picture. 
His  fat  little  hands  pat  it;  his  chubby  fingers  try 
to  caress  the  anatomical  figure  of  the  Ironworker 
seated  in  the  place  of  honour.  His  grotesque  body 
sprawls  against  the  picture.  Of  course  the  child 
is  attracted  by  the  reflection  in  the  glass.  That, 
to  my  mind,  is  the  simple  explanation. 
Mr.  X  thinks  differently.  "My  dear  sir,"  he  said, 
"you  have  before  you  an  admirable  example  of  the 
dawn  of  Art  appreciation  in  the  infant  mind.  Wood- 
row  Theodore  wails  until  I  bring  'The  Ironworker' 
to  him.  This  excellent  work  is  his  introduction  to 
the  study  of  i^sthetics.  He  has  a  thorough  appre- 
ciation of  the  picture.  I  am  delighted  at  his 
prescience,  sir." 

I  was  dumbfounded.  Around  the  walls  were 
Mr.  X's  recent  purchases — a  Rockwell  Kent  Alaska 
drawing,  a  Robinson  allegory,  a  Marin  water  colour, 
a  Davies  nymph,  a  Bluemner  building,  a  Branchard 
sincerity,  a  Wolmark  still-life,  yet  here  he  was  tu- 
toring his  child  on  this  chilly  steel  engraving  of  an 
academic  ineptitude. 

"But  my  dear  Mr.  X,"  I  cried,  "j^ou  are  going 
back  into  the  dark  ages.  I  called  to  ask  if  you 
would  accompany  me  to  an  Advanced  Art  picture 
show." 

Mr.  X  mused  darkly.  Woodrow  Theodore,  dis- 
covering some  new  attraction  in  the  steel  engrav- 


346  Art  and  I 

ing,  uttered  a  howl  of  delight,  and  Mr.  X  said^ 
what  do  you  think  ?  He  said  solemnly  but  not  with- 
out sweetness,  "And  a  little  child  shall  lead  him. 
I  am  content,  sir,  to  be  guided  (this  very  modestly) 
by  my  infant  son." 

"But  my  dear  Mr.  X,"  I  began,  "you " 

At  that  moment  the  nurse  entered  the  room,  anc^ 
the  child,  protesting  vehemently  at  being  severed 
from  the  picture,  was  removed. 
"I  am  a  witness  of  this  extraordinary  lesson  in  art 
appreciation  every  afternoon,"  said  Mr.  X.  "It 
makes  me  'furiously  to  think'  as  our  French  friends 
say.  Pray,  sir,  what  is  your  objection  to  Professor 
Schusserle's  'The  Ironworker  and  King  Solomon'? 
It  seems  to  me  to  be  an  accurate,  painstaking  and 
impressive  illustration  of  a  famous  Jewish  legend. 
I  doubt  if  Sir  Edward  Poynter,  P.  R.  A.,  could 
have  done  it  better." 

I   gazed   at  him   in    astonishment,   then   I   walked 
to  the  window  and  looked  sadly  down  at  the  traf- 
fic of  the  street.     That,  at  any  rate,  was  normal. 
He,  my  pupil!    This  was  the  end  of  all  things. 
"Well,  sir,  I  await  your  answer." 
"O  my  dear  Mr.  X,  I  could  give  you  a  dozen 
answers,  but  what's  the  use." 
"Give  me  one  objection,"  he  said. 
"One — why,    why    it's    entirely    lacking    in    tem- 
perament." 

"What  is  temperament?"  cried  Mr.  X.  "Pooh, 
sir,  pooh." 

I  handled  my  coat,  I  possessed  myself  of  my  hat 
and  cane,  then  I  paused,  glaring  at  Mr.  X,  noticing 


Art  and  Mr.  X  347 

for  the  first  time  how  smug,  self-satisfied,  pros- 
perous and  content  he  looked.  I  became  almost 
angry. 

"You  are  a  typical  Anglo-Saxon,"  I  cried.  "You 
despise  temperament:  having  none  yourself  you  de- 
spise it  in  others.  But  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that 
without  temperament  art  is  nothing — dull  and  bar- 
ren. And  I'll  tell  you  something  else,  something 
that  is  happening  in  England  as  well  as  in  Amer- 
ica. By  whom  is  the  best  work,  the  most  promis- 
ing, the  most  significant  and  the  most  vital  being 
done?  By  foreigners  who  have  become  British  and 
American  citizens — Polish  Jews,  Russian  Jews,  all 
the  smaller,  outcast  and  outlying  nations,  all  the 
despised  and  rejected.  They  have  temperament. 
And  why  have  they  temperament?  Because  they 
have  suffered.  We  Anglo-Saxons  are  so  prosperous, 
so  content,  so  accustomed  to  having  ever}'thing  our 
own  way,  that  we  have  lost  our  temperament,  have 
exorcised  it  because  it  doesn't  make  for  efficiency, 
for  money-getting,  and  getting  on." 
Mr.  X  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  I  feared  that 
he  was  about  to  proclaim  that  he  had  tempera- 
ment; he  spared  me  that.  Excited  though  he  was, 
he  exercised  admirable  self-control.  Slowly,  punc- 
tiliously, as  if  desirous  of  giving  his  irritation  time 
to  abate,  he  removed  "The  Ironworker"  from  the 
floor  and  placed  it  carefully  upon  an  Adam  settee. 
Then  he  said  with  dignity,  "I  may  not  have  tem- 
perament, sir,  but  I  have  eyes  in  my  head,  and  I 
have  Common  Sense.  If  I  were  asked  to  choose 
between  the  gifts  of  Temperament  and   Common 


348  Art  and  I 

Sense,  I  would  choose  Common  Sense  any  day  and 
every  day.  Would  Temperament  have  produced 
the  Perfect  Bath  Tub?  Answer  me  that,  sir." 
I  shrugged  my  shoulders,  and  said  w^ith  scorn,  "I 
was  under  the  impression,  sir,  that  you  desired  to 
become  a  connoisseur." 

"So  I  do,  sir,  but  a  Connoisseur  whose  connoisseur- 
ship  is  founded  upon  COMMON  SENSE." 
He  pronounced  the  word  as  if  every  letter  was  a 
capital,  and  before  I  had  time  to  think  of  some- 
thing scathing  to  say,  he  continued: 
"You  may  care  to  know,  sir,  that  a  month  or  two 
ago  I  was  the  underbidder  at  the  auction  sale  when 
George  Inness'  'Sunset  On  the  River'  was  sold  for 
$17,000.     My  own  opinion  of  this  handsome  pic- 
ture was  confirmed  when  the  auctioneer  informed 
us  that   it   is  'the  finest  American   landscape  ever 
painted !'     It  was  Common   Sense,  sir,   not  Tem- 
perament, that  apprised  the  auctioneer  and  apprised 
me  of  that  important  fact." 
"Well,  good-bye,  Mr.  X,"  I  said. 
Further  words  were  useless. 

He  extended  his  shapely  hand  and  grasped  mine 
cordially. 

"Not  good-bye,"  he  said,  "au  revoir,  I  look  for- 
ward, sir,  with  pleasure  to  some  day  resuming  our 
conversations.  Pray  accept  this  as  a  souvenir  of 
our  pleasant  and  most  informing  intercourse." 
He  handed  me  a  photograph  of  Woodrow  Theo- 
dore in  a  gold  frame. 

THE   END 


INDEX 

OF 

ARTISTS  MENTIONED 


Adam,  Robert,  341,  342 
Afr\',  Anna,  45 
Angelico,  Fra,  248,  25 1 

Bacon,  Henry,  311 
Bakst,  92 
Bassano,  256 
Beall,  G.,  270 
Bell,  Vanessa,  266 
Bellini,  G.,  116 
Bellows,    G.,    269,    271, 

272 
Eenn,  Ben,  273 
Blake,  74,  128 
Blashfield,  E.  H.,  311 
Bluemner,   O.,   79,   274, 

317,  345 
Bone,   Muirhead,   323 
Botticelli,   79,  249,  295 
Brabazon,  98,    lOO 
Branchard,   E.,   345 
Brangwyn,  135 
Brodzk^^  266 
Burne-Jones,  40,  249 
Bussy,   Simon,   135 
Butler,  H.  R.,  290-293 

Caravaggio,  256 
Cezanne,  62,  65,  115,  I2i- 


125,  129,  134,  144.  145, 
147,  149,  152,  153.  162, 
164,  182,  264,  327 

Cellini,  Benvenuto,  243 

Chasseriau,   136 

Chavannes,  Puvis  de,  162, 
264 

Converse,  Lily,  79,  317 

Constable,  71,  116,  222, 
264 

Cooper,     Colin    C,    272, 

273 
Cooper,  Sydney,  59 
Corot,  65,  81,  220 
Cosimo,  Piero  di,  79 
Cotman,  99 
Courbet,  219-223 
Cox,   Kenyon,    149 
Cozens,  John,  98,  99 
Cozens,    Alexander,    98, 

99 
Cumming,  E.  E.,  79 

Duchamp,  M.,  181 
Du  Maurier,  90 
Durer,  98,  245 
Donatello,  93 
Degas,    55-57,    136,    153. 
235,  237,  238 


349 


350 


Index 


David,  238 

Davies,    Arthur    B.,    26, 

79,  126-130,  316,  345 
Duccio,  251 

Everett,  John,  323 

Etchells,  266 

El  Greco,   162,  252-258 

Ferguson,  J.,  266 
Flaxman,    278 
Fragonard,  299 
Fry,  Roger,  188,  252,  253, 

266 
Fuller,  G.,  128 

Gainsborough,     15,     51, 

315 
Gauguin,    82,     115,     132- 
141,  144,  149,  152,  182, 

327 
Gertler,  M.,  266 
Gill,  E.,  266 
Gifford,  59 
Giotto,  26,  69,  294 
Giorgione,  128 
Goya,  162 
Gimson,  132 
Gleizes,  163 
Ghirlandaio,  25,  102 
Girtin,  T.,  99 
Gilbert,  Cass,  105 

Holmes,  C.  J.,  265 

Hoppner,  315 

Homer,  Winslow,  60,  100, 

315,  316 
Houdon,  93 
Holbein,  224-229 


Hassam,  Childe,  238 
Hals,   F.,    147,   217,  218, 

221,  236,  240 
Hammett,  Nina,  266 
Hemy,  Napier,  56 
Higgins,  E.,  271 
Hiroshige,   202,   206 
Hokusai,  202,  243 

Ingres,  70,  235-240,  264 
Inness,  G.,  315,  348 

John,  Augustus,  61,  116- 
120,  169,  264,  265,  304 
Johnson,  D.,  59 
Jonas,  279 

Kahler,  Carl,  79 
Kauffer,  266 
Keene,  90 

Kennington,  E.,  279 
Kent,    Rockwell,    62,    80, 

316,  341.  345 
Kramer,  E.  A.,  81-86 
Kramer,  266 
Kreitas,  212 
Kresilas,  212 
Knight,  Laura,  45 
Kuehne,  Max,  79 
Kuhn,  Walt,  175,  178 

La  Farge,  John,  315 
Landseer,  Edwin,  320 
Lawrence,   Sir  T.,  222, 

315 
Leader,  B.,  59 
Leighton,   Lord,  40 
Lepage,     Bastien,     116- 

120 


Index 


351 


Lewis,  Wyndham,  45,  266 
Leonardo,    78,    94.    216, 

230-234 
Le  Soeur,  34 
Lippi,  Filippo,  247 
Long,  E.,  267 
Lorrain,   Claude,   59,   78, 

98,  128 

McKim,  Meade  &  White, 

104 
Macknight,  D.,  98,  100 
Mabuse,  245 
Manet,  122,  136,  153,  222, 

218 
Mantegna,  245 
Marin,  J.,  79,   175-178, 

317,  345 
Manship,   Paul,  92-96 
Marises,  The,  147 
Matisse,  82,  148-154,  157" 

159,  164,  182 
Melchers,  Gari,  317 
Memlinc,  82,  182,  245 
Meng  Fu,  195 
Meninsky,  266 
Metzinger,  163 
Michelangelo,  88 
Millais,  40,  168 
Miller,  K.  H.,  79 
Monet,  65,  124,  136,  220 
Moronohu,  203 
Murillo,  245 

Nash,  John,  266,  318 
Nash,  Paul,  45,  266,  304 
Neandross,  Lief,  270 
Nevinson,  C.  R.  W.,  79, 
266,  304,  318,  319 


Orchardson,  40 

Orpen,  W.,  318,  321,  322 

Paolo,  Giovanni  di,   129 

Patinir,  221 

Piero     Delia     Francesca, 

128,  264 
Pearce,  Maresco,  132,  137 
Peploe,   S.  J.,  266 
Perugino,  128 
Pesellino,  247-251 
Picabia,  161 
Picasso,     115,     129,     149, 

160-166,   181 
Pinturicchio,  26 
Pissano,  C,  122,  136 
Poussin,  59 
Poynter,  40,  346 
Proctor,  A.  P.,  282 
Pryse,  Spencer,  279,  323 

Raemaekers,  88,  279 
Raphael,     70,     128,     182, 

216-218,  227,  237,  238 
Ray,  Man,  180-185 
Rembrandt,    59,   98,    147, 

221,  252 
Redfield,  E.  W.,  62 
Reni,  Guido,  297 
Renoir,  153 

Reynolds,  Joshua,  51,  315 
Ricardo,  Halsey,  132 
Rice,  Anne  E.,  266 
Riviere,  Briton,  40,  41 
Roberts,  W.,  45,  266 
Robinson,  Boardman,  345 
Rodin,  93,  212 
Romney,  51,  186,  315 
Rooper,  M.  A.,  64 


352 


Index 


Rubens,  98  Utamaro,  202 

Ryder,  A.   P.,  25,   70-75,      Uccello,  Paolo,  191,  202, 
315,316  250 


St,  Gaudens,  A.,  311 
Sandby,  98,  99 
Sano  di  Pietro,  22i,  222 
Sargent,   59,  60,   98,   100, 

237,  278,  309,  316 
Schofield,  E.,  62 
Schusserle,  C,  344 
Schwabe,  266 
Scopas,  212 
Segantini,  209 
Seurat,  G.,  115,  153 
Sickert,  Walter,  264,  265 
Steer,  Wilson,  265 
Stella,  J.,   317 
Sterne,  M.,  317 
Stevens,  Alfred,   169,  264 
Stuart,    Gilbert,    25,    59, 

315 
Stiick,  F.,  89 
Symons,  G.,  62 

Thayer,  Abbott,  278 
Tiffany,  Louis,  340 
Tintoretto,  271 
Titian,  169,  182,  216,  252, 

254 
Tryon,    Dwight    W.,    62, 

315 
Turner,    15,    79,    98,    99. 

lOi,  128,  190,  264 
Twachtman,       62,       315, 

316 


Van  Eyck,  Jan,  296,  297 
Van  Eyck,  Hubert,  296 
Van  Gogh,  115,  134,  136, 
142-147,  149,  152,  256, 

327 
Velasquez,  18-23,  51,  169, 

182,  216,  218,  252,  258, 

282-289 
Vermeer    of    Delft,    147, 

169,  221-223,  251 

Wadsworth,  266 
Walkowitz,  A.,  79,  317 
Wang  Wei,    195 
Watteau,  128 
Watts,  G.  F.,  88 
Weir,  J.  Alden,  167-171 
West,  B.,  315 
Whistler,  26,  35,  65,   70, 

128,  169,  198,  242,  315, 

325-330 
White,  Stanford,  311 
Whittredge,   59 
Wint,  Peter  de,  99 
Wolmark,     Alfred,     167- 

174,  345 
Wright,  W.  H.,  164 
Wu  Tao-tzu,  197 

Yamazoe,  K.,  158 

Zirnbauer,  F.,  158 


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